Illo Tempore Bonum Consilium Videbatur
by congratsyou'vegrownasoul
Summary: The events of September 1, 1971 through November 1, 1981-first day of first year through Lily and James's deaths and the aftermath-from the first person POV of Sirius Black.
1. Crossing the Threshold

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, settings, or general plotlines included in the Harry Potter series. These are the creations of J.K. Rowling. The dialogue in the train-compartment scene comes directly from _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows._

Info: My story will be entirely from the first-person persepective of Sirius Black. It will begin with the Marauders' first year and, the way I'm currently planning it, end with Sirius going after Peter Pettigrew. Ships are as yet undecided, other than James/Lily. They will probably involve some OC's, but any romance involving Sirius will not play a particularly important part. I'm focusing more on friendship/family dynamics and the war against Voldemort.

* * *

Chapter One: Crossing the Threshold

I'm awake before five in the morning, which is early, even for me, and I've never been one to sleep late. It's impossible for me to go back to sleep. I'm way too excited. Tonight, I'll be at my first Hogwarts feast. Ever since I was little, at least one of my three older cousins has been studying magic, and though I've always known I would as well—my family can trace pureblood wizarding ancestry back to the twelfth century, as I'm often told—it's exhilarating to realize I'm almost there. My bed is huge, big enough for at least three people my size to sleep comfortably in, so there are mounds of covers to struggle through in order to get up. Grabbing my brand-new wand, purchased at Ollivander's just last weekend, from the bedside table, I sit on the edge of the bed, pointing it across the room at my bookshelf.

"Wingardium Leviosa," I whisper.

One of the books slides out from among its fellows and hovers in midair for a few seconds before I let it sink gently onto the floor. Underage wizards aren't technically supposed to do magic outside of school, but the Ministry can't tell who performs the spells in a magical residence, and I've been allowed to use other people's wands occasionally since I was about eight. Best way possible to make sure my powers develop fully, keeping me as far from being a Muggle as possible, or at least that's what Mother says.

Still holding my wand, I head out the door to check on my trunk, which is downstairs in the hallway. Our house-elf packed it last night, which means all the spellbooks will be stacked in neat rows and my uniform robes will be folded and freshly laundered inside of the cauldron. Had I packed it myself, everything would have just been thrown inside the trunk sloppily. I let the door to my room close softly—my younger brother, Regulus, is still asleep in the next room, and I don't want to wake him. In the early morning, before anyone else is up, I have the house to myself.

I run down three flights of stairs, passing several rows of preserved house-elf heads. It's a rather morbid family tradition started by some distant relative, decapitating our house-elves when they get elderly and mounting their heads on the wall. My brother used to have nightmares about them when he was younger, but Kreacher, our current elf, wants nothing more than to have his own head stuck up on the wall next to his mother's. Apparently it would be the highest mark of service. House-elves are strange beings.

The front hallway is dark, heavy velvet curtains drawn across the windows blocking what little light would enter from the square outside. To the Muggles who live on Grimmauld Place, our house is invisible. Protective spells have been placed on it continuously for generations, and they have no idea it exists. Even wizards can't come here unless we want them too. My parents like it that way. I hurry along, the thick carpet muffling my footsteps. The trunk looms against the wall. Opening it, I rifle through my schoolbooks, making sure everything's there. There's no chance it wouldn't be, but I'm a little nervous about starting school, and it's making me paranoid.

As I'm shifting aside the box holding my potion ingredients, I hear a shuffling noise behind me. Kreacher has come into the room, holding a cleaning rag. He's the only other person in the house who'd be up this early. Mother mentioned something at dinner last night about the drawing room silver looking a little dingy. Kreacher worships her, so he's probably come up here early to polish it. He sinks into a bow as soon as he sees I've noticed him.

"Master Sirius is awake very early this morning. Kreacher was expecting the family to still be asleep."

"Sorry for disturbing you, then." I say, a little testily. "The stuff she wanted you to clean is in the drawing room. You can get in there."

"As Master wishes."

Kreacher steps out of his bow and sidles through the drawing room door, staring at me all the way. He's never liked me much, even though he and the other elf we used to have, Gelly, who's up on the wall as well now, took care of me and my brother when we were too little to have tutors yet. I've never quite understood why most pureblood families have their children cared for by house-elves, because eventually the child figures out that their caretaker is bound to their blood and has to do what they tell him. This is probably why I got away with a lot as a child. Apparently I also used to pull house-elf ears when I was a toddler.

I prefer not having Kreacher following me around as well. He's quite strange, even for an elf, and like my parents he prefers my brother to me, although why I should care what a house-elf thinks of me I don't know.

I shove the contents of my trunk back into something resembling their original order, and head back upstairs. In just a few hours I'll be off to Hogwarts. Out of this place.

My mother keeps up a constant stream of vicious muttering as we wade through the crowds at King's Cross. She's not exactly used to Muggles, since my whole family prefers isolating themselves from lesser sorts of people. However, we've no choice but to force our way among what she ferociously terms "filth" on the way to the platform. Her obviously offensive grumbles only draw more attention from the Muggles at the station. It doesn't help that she's wearing a long, deep purple cloak, or that there's a large eagle owl in a cage on my luggage trolley. My father is less clearly angered by the presence of Muggles—he seems to want to avoid them. Face set grimly, he walks ahead of the rest of us, his stride fast and jerkily uncomfortable, yanking his own green cloak out of the path of a Muggle woman in a pink sweater, who's staring curiously at my odd-looking family.

I'm uncomfortable with all the attention, not just because I don't like being ogled like a zoo animal, but because whenever my mother acts like this it makes me nervous. I know the language she's using is really offensive, and most wizards don't see Muggles and people of Muggle ancestry as quite so inferior. Even though almost all my family agrees with my mother, my cousin Andromeda's tried to explain to me that it isn't right. I've seen for myself the reaction my mother's comments get from many wizards, and I don't like the disgusted way they look at her, and by extension, me.

I shove my luggage cart along, not as carefully as I probably should, letting it bump along over the uneven sidewalk. Lacerta, my owl, hoots reproachfully. Mother pauses briefly in her monologue to shoot me a glare.

"You needn't try to break all your school things before you even get on the train, Sirius."

Regulus smirks at me, tagging along next to our mother. He's small for his age, while I'm tall like my father, so even though he's nine and I'm only eleven I'm a head taller. He has to jog a little to keep up with the rest of us. I consider responding to my mother, but she's now complaining under her breath about the "dirty animals" we're sharing the station with, and I don't want to draw any more attention from the Muggles. The woman in the sweater is still looking after us, and it'll be hard enough for us to get through the platform barrier unseen. We're coming up to it now, the brick divider between platforms nine and ten, and as I watch, my father disappears through it.

"Go ahead, Sirius, hurry up," Mother says, and I shove my baggage trolley toward the barrier. The momentum carries me through the brick, and out the other side. Mother and Regulus step through a few moments after me.

In front of us, the Hogwarts Express idles on the rails, its engine car and carriages painted glossy cherry-red. Green or purple cloaks like those my parents wear don't stand out at all here; it's clearly a magical crowd. A couple in long gold robes fusses over their daughter just ahead of us, and a man leaning against a pillar is smoking a pipe that issues bright blue smoke. I stare around at the crowd, looking at all the kids I'll be going to school with. There's a short mousy-looking boy who's hugging his mother and crying a bit over by the train—a first year like me, almost certainly. In contrast, a tall girl who's already changed into her uniform is boarding one of the nearest cars, looking excited, a gleaming Ravenclaw prefect's badge pinned to the front of her robes.

I kind of want to just get on the train already, but my parents have other ideas. I have to submit to what seems like a full lecture on my responsibilities at Hogwarts. It's a little embarrassing, especially seeing as other people just seem to get good-bye, good luck, and a hug from their own family. I, however, have to hear a whole speech, split between my parents, but mostly my mother, on "the illustrious history of our family at Hogwarts"—my great-great-grandfather was Head of Slytherin House and eventually school Headmaster—"upholding the family honor" and "behaving as befits your pure bloodline." There's a lot of pressure put on children in my family, but especially on me, because I'm the oldest male child this generation, and thus the Black heir. My father's rather pleased with himself about this, because his own brother only managed to produce daughters. Throughout this, all I do is nod occasionally and dispassionately agree with everything they say. Finally they finish, and all three of us stare at each other a little awkwardly.

"I guess I'd better get on the train, then." I say. "Well, bye."

They both nod at me briskly. As I'm turning away to board the train, Regulus, who's been hovering nearby looking around the platform, runs up and hugs me. A little surprised, since my family has never been physically affectionate, I hug back.

Looking up at me, he says, "Good luck, Sirius. I'll miss you."

"Thanks. You'll be coming too, you know—just a couple years."

Regulus is a sweet kid, even if everybody and their house-elves seem to prefer him to me. "I know. So, see you."

"See you, Regulus." He lets go of me, and steps back to stand with our parents. Getting up onto the train, I wave and then turn around and head into the carriage, lugging my trunk.

Most of the compartments are half-full at best, since as it's only quarter to eleven a lot of people are still outside on the platform. The first few I pass have older-looking students in them, and older kids probably wouldn't want to sit with a first-year. The fourth compartment is empty except for a redheaded girl about my age. I slide open the door, and when she looks up I can see she's been crying.

Before whatever reflex that's supposed to tell someone when to shut their mouth kicks in, I say "What, are you homesick already?"

My shut-your-mouth reflex has never been particularly strong. The redheaded girl glares at me and then turns away, pressing her face against the window.

"Can I sit here?"

"Well, as I doubt I can force you out, yes, you can," she says, not bothering to look at me.

"Right then. I won't bother trying to talk."

I push my trunk and Lacerta's cage up onto the luggage rack and flop down across two seats. At that point, the compartment door bangs open again and a shortish dark-haired boy with glasses comes in.

"Are you guys first years?" he asks, lifting his own cage, holding a fluffy gray owl, up onto the rack next to mine.

"Yeah. Dunno about her, but she's in a rotten mood, so I wouldn't ask." The girl sniffs rather indignantly and then continues to ignore both of us.

"So, who're you?" I ask the other boy, who's sitting down opposite me in one of the remaining seats.

"My name's James. James Potter. You?" There's a Potter who works for the Ministry who my father thinks is a blood traitor. I wonder if they're related.

"Sirius Black."

"Have any siblings here already?"

"I've got cousins, but my brother's younger. So no."

"Well, that's more than I've got. I'm an only, and no cousins whatsoever. My parents went, of course, but I don't know anyone at Hogwarts right now."

"Well, my cousins are girls, and they're way older. One of them's already left." I don't feel like talking about my family, so I change the subject.

"Which class do you think you'll like best?" _That's right, Sirius, go ahead and pick the nerdiest topic possible. _

"Does flying count as a class?" James grins, and I laugh.

"I'm guessing you like Quidditch, then."

"Of course! I love flying. I've got a Silver Arrow at home, but seeing as 'first years are not allowed their own brooms'" He says the last part in a stuffy, uptight tone. "It's ridiculous; I've been flying about as long as walking. I think next year I'll try out for my House team. D'you play?"

"Well, I've flown quite a bit, but I've never actually played Quidditch or anything."

James is just starting to tell me how horrible that is and how much I've been missing all my life when the door opens again and another boy about our age, a scrawny, awkward-looking kid who's already in his school robes, slides open the compartment door and hurries in. He sits down opposite the redheaded girl, and they start talking quietly to each other.

"So even if you don't play, do you have a favorite team?" James asks me.

"Well, I don't particularly support anyone, but Puddlemere United has a really good side right now, don't they?"

"Yeah, they do, they're winning the league, unfortunately. I'm for Wimbourne, and they're third at the moment. They ranked first in '57—my dad was at the championship game—but they haven't won since."

At that point, the awkward boy tells the girl that "You'd better be in Slytherin," and James seems to notice the two of them for the first time.

"Slytherin?" he says, looking over at them a bit scathingly. "Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"My whole family have been in Slytherin." I say, my stomach squirming in embarrassment and even a little shame. I don't really know any Wizarding families outside of those mine associates with, and I don't have any experience with people who aren't Slytherin. James has been very friendly, but he clearly doesn't like Slytherin, and I wonder if he'll see me as a rival now, or worse, if he'll be disgusted.

"Blimey, and I thought you seemed alright!" James is clearly joking, though, and I can't help but grin.

"Maybe I'll break the tradition." I say, "Where are you heading, if you've got the choice?" I don't really know anything at all about the other three houses, since it's always been assumed that I'll be Slytherin through and through like the rest of the family.

"Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!" James says dramatically, hefting an imaginary sword. "Like my dad."

The other boy, who I've almost forgot about by this point, makes a sort of pained snorting noise.

"Got a problem with that?" James says.

"No." The other boy is sneering now. "If you'd rather be brawny than brainy—"

"Where're you hoping to go, seeing as you're neither?" I interrupt. The other boy's sneers and condescension are grating on me, and at the moment I'm not exactly feeling pleasant towards those who actually want to be in Slytherin. James laughs loudly.

The redheaded girl stands up, blushing, and frowns at us. "Come on, Severus, let's find another compartment," she says, rather snootily.

"Ooooooh…" James and I imitate her oh-so-high-and-mighty tone.

The awkward boy stands up and follows her out into the corridor. James sticks out a foot as he passes, but he sidesteps it.

"See ya, Snivellus!" I yell as the door closes.

"Hey, good one." James grins.

"Thanks." I say.

We end up talking pretty much non-stop about Quidditch, our new wands, Houses—James's mother was in Ravenclaw, so he's got some of two houses in his family—and, once the food trolley comes round, the respective merits of chocolate frogs versus licorice wands. I don't like licorice, so it's an easy decision for me, but James can't decide. We make a game out of daring each other to eat the nastiest-looking of our Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and after nearly choking trying to spit out a particularly foul vomit-flavored one, James announces that he hopes Bertie Bott, whoever he was, died an especially violent death, preferably involving a rampaging chimera. I suggest it would be more ironic if he died of an attack of food poisoning.

The Hogwarts Express steams through fields, moors, and forests. At one point we pass about ten minutes' worth of white fluffy sheep, and once James and I run to the window in order to catch a glimpse of a winged horse grazing in a meadow. As the sky outside begins to darken, we quickly change into our school robes. Just when it's beginning to look like night instead of dusk, the train begins to slow down, and soon comes to a stop at what must be Hogsmeade Station.

Grabbing our luggage, James and I join the crowd of students surging off the train. It's a little disorienting being among so many people, even more so than at King's Cross, and between the bodies buffeting me on all sides and everyone's contrasting voices I'm completely lost.

"Firs' years! Firs' years, over here!" This bellow is so loud I can hear it over the din, and the man who's speaking is head and shoulders above any of us, so he's easily visible. My first thought is that he must be a giant—but giants are about twenty feet, and this man is nowhere near that. Also, his face is much more human that the misshapen features of a giant. No matter what exactly he is, he's huge. And wild-looking as well, with tangled black hair and beard and a massive furry overcoat draped around his broad shoulders. But his eyes are kind as he looks down on the youngest students, who have all begun congregating around him.

"Alrigh', then, I think that's all of yeh. Leave yer luggage, it'll go up on its own," the man says, when about two dozen of us are grouped near the edge of the platform. The older students are beginning to trickle off down a hill. Though it's too dark to see Hogwarts itself, lights are twinkling in the direction they're headed. It's tradition for first year students to reach the castle by boat, however, so we head a different way, straight off the platform and along scrubby ground to the edge of the lake. It looks a strange sort of purplish-black at this hour, like a giant pool of oil, dotted with swirling eddies.

"Look at those ripples in the water," I say in an undertone to James. "D'you think they might be from the—giant squid?" I grab his arm suddenly at the end of the sentence, and he flinches and then bursts out laughing. Walking behind us, the mousy boy who was crying at King's Cross jumps and lets out a small squeak. There are several rowboats lined up by the lake, half in and half out of the water. The huge man gives each a push, sliding them into the lake water.

"Should be three or four of yeh to a boat," he says. "Pile in, now."

James and I clamber into the nearest boat, along with the mousy boy and another, curly-haired boy. Once all the boats are filled—the man takes up a whole one on his own—the oars, which must be enchanted, start to move, propelling us across the lake towards the lights in the distance. The mousy boy stares into the water as if watching for the giant squid, while the other three of us crane our necks, looking for our first sights of the castle.

Slowly, it comes into view, first the nearer towers, then the battlements, and finally the great stone base. I breathe in sharply—it's huge, much bigger than I imagined, even from my cousins' stories. Perched on a cliff overlooking the lake like some hulking stone animal, it'd be foreboding if it weren't so brightly lit. Light beams out of windows all over the castle, illuminating long swathes of water as we draw closer.

"Yeh'll be wantin' to duck now!" the man calls from the head of our little fleet, pressing himself almost completely flat against the bottom of his boat. We students dip our heads as we pass into a tunnel hidden in the cliff face. The boats dock at a pebble-strewn beach at the tunnel's end, and we all climb out of our boats. There's a steep path cut into the rock, and we wend our way carefully up it after our giant guide. The path evens out in front of a large wooden door in the castle's base, and as we group in front of it, the man knocks on the door.

* * *

A/N: Well, first chapter's up. Obviously. Next chapter deals with Sirius's unprecendented Sorting and the reaction to it. I write shortish chapters, but I also plan to update frequently. Please review me!


	2. A Very Unexpected Sorting

Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling, unfortunately. Also, if the real Lauren Williamson or Tony Speranza ever read this, which isn't likely, please consider my appropriation of your names to be a tribute to my best friend's mother and my favorite English teacher. And, Mrs. W, you are a Hufflepuff in the best sense of the word.

* * *

Chapter Two: A Very Unexpected Sorting

The door swings open, creaking, to reveal a rather severe-looking woman in dark red robes, who surveys the new arrivals with eagle eyes.

"I've got the firs' years, Professor," the big man says.

"Thank you, Hagrid," the professor replies. "Follow me, please." The last part is addressed to us.

The red-robed woman leads us across a huge stone entrance chamber. Staircases line either side and a towering door is set in the opposite wall. I'm guessing this opens onto the Great Hall, but we go into a smaller room to the side instead. There's a door at the other end of the room, which probably leads to the hall as well. Maybe they keep first years in this other room directly before the Sorting.

It turns out that's right, as the woman—Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House, apparently—tells us we'll leave the room in a few minutes for our Sorting, and then briefly describes the four Houses. After McGonagall leaves the room, an unpleasant thought suddenly occurs to me. She's said we will be Sorted in alphabetical order, which means it's very likely I'll be first. Though I'm not exactly scared of being Sorted, I'd prefer not to be the very first to do so.

"Is anybody an A?" I ask, glancing around at the tight huddle of first years.

"What d'you mean, an A?" the curly-haired boy who was in my boat says rather aggressively.

"If your surname starts with A, obviously. I'm B and I want to know if I'm first."

"I'll be first, my name's Abbott," a boy whose thick blond hair hangs into his eyes says.

At that point, Professor McGonagall re-enters the room, and quickly shepherds us into a line. I end up last, behind James. McGonagall leads us through the other door, into the Great Hall. The Hall is enormous, with the four House tables stretching its length and the staff table, perpendicular to the other four, raised slightly on a dais. The arched ceiling, high above us, is enchanted to reflect the starry night sky. The line of first-years halts in front of the staff table, facing both the four Houses and a ragged, patched hat on a wooden stool.

I know it's the Sorting Hat, which will decide our fates at the school, but several of us, including the girl from the train, are looking at it in confusion. Their families probably haven't explained how the Sorting works to them, or they might be Muggle-born. Briefly, I wonder what it would be like in a Muggle family. Nobody in my family knows, or wants to know, anything about how Muggles live, except that their ways are inferior to magic. Maybe I'll get to talk with one of the Muggle-borns in my year sometime. Suddenly, a gash near the hat's brim opens like a mouth, and it begins to sing.

"A simple hat I may appear

But your fate I hold in store

Just try me on and you shall hear

Your place in houses four

A House for those of mental skill

Fair Ravenclaw decreed

Those strong in arts of pen and quill

Will in this House succeed

A House for those of gentle hearts

Sweet Hufflepuff professed

Of all the earthly arts

Honesty, to them, ranks best

A House for those of temper bold

Brave Gryffindor declared

This House, great honor will uphold

By those who always dared

A House for those of crafty mind

Sly Slytherin proclaimed

Those to Slytherin's House assigned

Will strive to lofty aims

So try me on, don't ignore

And let me quickly see

Which one of all the Houses four

Will hold your destiny"

As the hat finishes, the students and teachers applaud, some politely, others a bit more raucously. All these mentions of "fate" and "destiny" in the hat's song have made me a little nervous. I glance over at the Slytherin table, looking for my cousins. Andromeda, who's in her seventh and last year, is sitting near the head of the table. She smiles and waves at me. I smile back. Narcissa, who's a sixth year, is further down the table, whispering into the ear of a blond boy sitting next to her. They're both looking at me; she's probably telling him we're related. Behind me, McGonagall clears her throat. I glance back to see her opening a leather-bound roll book.

"When your name is called, please step forward and put on the hat in order to be sorted. Abbott, Terence!"

Terence Abbott steps forward, glancing nervously around the hall. He sits down, placing the hat on his head, and after a short pause, the mouth-rip opens again and screams, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

He gets up off the stool, putting the hat back, and half-walks, half-runs over to the Hufflepuff table.

The next name called is mine. "Black, Sirius!"

I make up my mind. Even though I'm weirdly anxious about which House I'll end up in, I am not going to walk out there tripping over my own feet. I am going to walk out proudly with my head held high, and I'm going to go to whichever House I go to with confidence. When I reach the stool, I take a quick deep breath and then jam the hat on my head. For a second there's total silence, the dark inside of the hat swimming in front of my eyes, and then a little voice—the hat's?—whispers in my ear.

"Let's see, what shall I do with you? You're a brave one, that's clear…bit too brave, to be honest. Bright as well. Talented. And no shortage of loyalty. An interesting rebellious streak…very interesting. Well, all things considering—GRYFFINDOR!"

I feel a little numb as I get up, putting the hat back on its stool. There's scattered applause at the Gryffindor table, but nothing like the volume from Hufflepuff when Abbott was Sorted there. I can spot people whispering to each other all around the hall, and even the teachers seem to be staring at me. Apparently the Black family's Slytherin history is well known. As I walk towards my new House table, I catch a glimpse of Narcissa's dumbfounded expression. _If you keep your mouth open like that much longer, you'll choke on an owl. _All of a sudden, I want to laugh really badly. Somehow I feel like that wouldn't go over well, so I end up making sort of an instinctual compromise and grinning from ear to ear.

James flashes me a thumbs up from the front of the hall. I sit down at an unoccupied spot on the Gryffindor bench as "Bletchley, Claudia!" joins Narcissa, who seems to have regained the use of her mouth and is now whispering to the boy next to her again, at the Slytherin table. I glance over at Andromeda, wondering how she'll have reacted. She raises a single eyebrow at me wryly—_Bloody hell, I need to learn how to do that_—and I shrug in response. My parents will be unbelievably angry when they find out. So much for "upholding the family honor."

"Evans, Lily"—the redheaded girl from the train—is the next to be sorted into Gryffindor. I scoot up the bench to make room, but she looks disdainfully at me and, though she sits down, turns away. What a prat_._ Several more new Gryffindors arrive—"Fishwick, Kathryn," "Lupin, Remus," "Macdonald, Mary," "Musson, Alice," "O'Connell, Jessica,"and "Pettigrew, Peter," the nervous boy who was in our boat. Directly after Peter Pettigrew, James is called. He's the only person, other than my cousins, at Hogwarts that I know at all, and he's friendly. I hope he'll end up in my House, and I know it'd be his first choice anyway. Sure enough, the hat is on his head for no more than fifteen seconds before it shouts "GRYFFINDOR!"

James yanks the hat off, beaming, and walks over, sitting down between me and Alice Musson. There aren't many first-years left to be sorted at this point. The curly-haired boy ("Rosier, Evan!") goes to Slytherin. I didn't like him anyway, he was way too in-your-face, and since I'm in-your-face too, it's probably a good thing we're not in the same House. "Ryan, Chloe!" is Ravenclaw. Snivellus from the train ("Snape, Severus!") gets his wish and goes to Slytherin as well, though without Evans, obviously. "Speranza, Anthony!" goes to Ravenclaw, "Suffield, Pheobe!" and "Telfair, Gloria!" join us at the Gryffindor table, and "Vanderlinden, Amelia!" is another Slytherin. Finally, with "Williamson, Lauren!"—"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Sorting concludes.

"About time!" James says. "I could eat a hippogriff!"

He's pretty loud, so several people overhear and laugh—me, Alice, Remus Lupin on her other side, and Peter Pettigrew next to me. Evans, between Peter and an older student, smiles slightly. The hall quiets when Albus Dumbledore stands, long purple robes flowing around him, to make the start-of-term speech.

"Another year comes. Another flock of promising new faces, and many returning ones as well. Now that you are all Sorted, and no doubt waiting hungrily for me to finish up, I see no point in parting you from your meal any longer. So, welcome to students old and new, and enjoy the feast. Pip-pip!"

As Dumbledore sits back down, the long House tables suddenly fill with food. There must be some sort of spell that transfers it from the kitchens to the Hall, because I know it's magically impossible to conjure food out of thin air—someone, somewhere, must have cooked it. The utensils seem to be made out of gold, which is polished so much that I can see my face reflected in the soup tureen in front of me. We eat off silver plateware at home, but it doesn't quite have this bright luster. Further down the table, Remus is examining his fork as well, but everybody else seems to be eating, and suddenly I realize how hungry I am, even though I ate a ridiculous amount of candy on the train. I help myself to roast potatoes and chicken, and soon everybody's eating, laughing, and talking, some with their mouths full.

The two Gryffindor boys I haven't already met seem nice enough. Remus, who's rather sickly-looking, with brown hair, blue eyes, and scars along his jaw, is somewhat shy, but obviously quite bright. Peter is short and chubby, sort of blondish, and pointy-nosed. He's a little overenthusiastic, but again he seems alright, so I decide not to hold his crying on the platform against him.

When the table clears itself and then refills with desserts, all four of us boys are passionately discussing Quidditch. Well, we're all discussing it at least—James is by far the most passionate. I really need to get into Quidditch more; almost everybody else is obsessed. James and Remus are debating Wimbourne's last match, against a team called Godolphin Cross, based near where Remus lives. Apparently one of the Wimbourne Chasers made a shot that Remus thinks was illegal towards the end of the game, and he says it should have been voided as a foul. James argues it was a fair shot.

"I was there, Runcorn distinctly fouled her—did you see what he did with his leg?"

"I was there too, Remus, it was completely legal, it was like this—"

James seizes a handful of little jam tarts from the platter in front of him.

"Alright, so this one is Runcorn, and this one is Cassidy—Sirius, would you mind sort of holding your hands up and pretending to be the goalposts—and she was sort of hovering around to the left of the goal, and he came in from this side, like this, and scored, legally—" Both tarts hover enticingly between my hands now.

"And suddenly, the goalposts go rogue and devour both players, shocking supporters of both teams—but they tasted DELICIOUS!"

All four of us are rolling around on the bench laughing now. Even Lily Evans giggles.

"Hey, look, I made Evans laugh! Mission accomplished!"

"Evans, would you like a Chaser?" James asks innocently, holding out a jam tart to her.

Evans is trying to look dignified now. "You have jam all over your face, Black," she says. I glance at my reflection in a bowl of trifle.

"I do not, it isn't all over my face, just sort of smeared around the mouth area."

"Well, it's still on your face."

"Can't deny it, Evans—oi, Remus, could you pass me a napkin?"

By the time the desserts vanish as well and Dumbledore stands up to give us a slightly longer speech about school rules, out-of-bounds areas and other minor inconveniences, I'm yawning, feeling the effects of waking up at five o'clock.

A couple of prefects take on the job of herding first-years up to Gryffindor Tower, the entrance to which is concealed by a portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress, who swings open on hinges when given the password ("Unicornis Lasvicit!".) The Gryffindor common room is a large, cozy circular room, with several fireplaces, and overstuffed red armchairs grouped around tables. The prefects separate us into boys and girls, and direct each group up a spiral staircase to our dormitory.

The first-year boys' dorm has a bed for each of us—smaller and more comfortable-looking than my bed at home, red hangings tied to the bedposts with gold tassels. Our luggage is in the rooms as well. My trunk and Lacerta in her cage are next to the nearest bed, which I climb into gratefully, not even bothering to unpack pajamas. I fall asleep within five minutes.

The next morning, to my surprise, I'm not the first awake. Remus is already gone, his bed empty and his trunk open next to it. James and Peter are both still asleep—James is lying face down with his head embedded in the pillow, which looks like a really uncomfortable way of sleeping to me. I change into my uniform, noting with a flash of pride that during the night someone, no doubt a Hogwarts house elf, has sewn Gryffindor insignia on all my robes.

Remus is already at the Gryffindor table when I go into the Great Hall, reading "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One," and eating a bowl of cornflakes.

"Course schedules are in!" he announces cheerfully as I sit down and reach hungrily for a plate of bacon. "We've got Charms right after breakfast. What d'you think we'll have first lesson? I was thinking maybe levitation, that's first page in the book."

"Levitation's impossibly easy; I could do that when I was practically a baby. I'll be bored out of my mind if that's first lesson."

"Well, I haven't tried yet, but is it really that easy?"

"Was for me."

Remus takes his wand out of his pocket and points it, glaring with concentration. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The piece of bacon I was about to stab on my fork rises into the air, jolting shakily back and forth.

"See, easy, right?" I lean forward and bite off the end of the bacon in midair. Remus laughs, losing his focus, and the bacon plummets downward into my pumpkin juice.

At that point, James and Peter arrive, and fall simultaneously on breakfast. We're all so busy joking around, eating, and spilling pumpkin juice whilst trying to fish bacon out of it that I barely notice when about a hundred owls swoop in, sailing over the Great Hall, and delivering parcels and letters to students.

"Er, Sirius, I think you've got a letter," Peter says, gesturing at the smoking red envelope that's been dropped in front of my plate.

"Oh, fucking hell." There is no time for grace or eloquence when impending humiliation is on the line.

The Howler bursts into flames, and my mother's shrieking voice fills the Hall. Peter plugs his ears.

"NEVER IN ALL MY LIFE HAVE I BEEN SO ASHAMED AND ASTOUNDED! THE VERY IDEA THAT A SON OF MINE WOULD BE SORTED INTO GRYFFINDOR IS SO REPELLENT I HAD NEVER EVEN STOOPED TO CONSIDER THAT YOU WOULD WIND UP THERE, DISAPPOINTMENT THAT YOU ARE."

I wince, looking down at my plate in embarrassment. I can literally feel everybody staring at me.

"IMAGINE MY HORROR WHEN I WAS INFORMED THIS WAS THE CASE. GENERATIONS OF FAMILY HISTORY—GREAT WIZARDS AND WITCHES, EVEN A HOGWARTS HEADMASTER—HAVE BEEN IN SLYTHERIN, AND YET MY FIRSTBORN SON GOES TO ANOTHER HOUSE, BREAKING FAMILY TRADITION, DISHONORING THE NAME OF BLACK, NO DOUBT ASSOCIATING WITH COUNTLESS UNWORTHY FILTH AT THIS VERY MOMENT."

This is worse than when she goes after me. It's bad to be yelled at and ridiculed in front of everybody, but much worse now that the whole school can see how bigoted my family is.

"SORTED INTO A HOUSE THAT WELCOMES MUDBLOODS AND EVEN HALF-BREEDS WITH OPEN ARMS, INSTEAD OF RECOGNIZED FOR YOUR HERITAGE AND LINEAGE! I DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW WHAT THAT HAT FOUND INSIDE YOUR DEPRAVED MIND TO SPUR THIS DECISION."

And now my own mother is calling me depraved. I wish this was face-to-face, so I could give as good as I got, instead of being forced to sit here and listen.

"I KNEW HOGWARTS WAS ON A DOWNWARD SPIRAL WHEN THAT MUDLOVER ALBUS DUMBLEDORE WAS MADE HEAD, IN MY GREAT-GRANDFATHER'S DAY YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN PROUD TO BE PUT IN SLYTHERIN!"

"Of course she brings Phineas Nigellus into this." I mutter.

"THE WHOLE COUNTRY IS FALLING TO PIECES; EVEN THE DEPUTY HEAD OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AT THE MINISTRY IS A DIRT-VEINED MUDBLOOD. THE WHOLE SCHOOL IS PROBABLY INFESTED WITH FILTH."

"And now we have the famous Wizardkind-is-doomed speech." I say. Oddly enough, James actually smiles.

"WHO KNOWS WHAT SORT OF DISGUSTING BEHAVIOR YOU WILL BE EXPOSED TO? YOUR FATHER AND I HAVE DONE EVERYTHING POSSIBLE TO GIVE OUR SONS THE BEST GROUNDING POSSIBLE, AND NOW I HEAR YOU HAVE THROWN AWAY ALL OF OUR TEACHINGS, REJECTED ALL THE VALUES OF OUR FAMILY, AND DISGRACED US BY BEING SORTED INTO THE WRONG HOUSE!"

"Merlin, will she ever stop?" My hands are balled up into fists underneath the tablecloth now.

"I AM HORRIFIED BY YOUR ACTIONS, YOU IMMORAL BOY! I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO SHOW MY FACE IN FRONT OF PROPER WIZARDING FAMILIES WITHOUT THEM LAUGHING BEHIND MY BACK!"

"Actually, if you're showing your face to them, they physically can't laugh behind your back at the same time." I say quietly, getting a small measure of content out of talking back, even if she's not there to hear me.

" WHAT KIND OF EXAMPLE ARE YOU SETTING FOR REGULUS? ALL THREE OF YOUR COUSINS ARE SLYTHERIN. YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE CAN BE PROUD OF THEIR CHILDREN. BUT I AM FORCED TO DEAL WITH YOU!"

On that kind and lovely note, it's finally over. The burning letter shrivels into ash. Rosier, Snape, and a few others in our year are staring at me and visibly laughing from the Slytherin table. Narcissa is smirking. Andromeda keeps glancing over. She's flushed and embarrassed-looking.

"You'd think I held the bloody hat at wandpoint till it put me in Gryffindor, just to offend her."

About half the Hall seems to be staring in my direction. People are whispering at all four House tables, and as I watch a large man with a moustache up at the staff table says something in Dumbledore's ear. They're both looking at me. I don't really want to know exactly what they're saying. There's a tall fair-haired boy, a sixth or seventh year, probably, sitting right down the table from us, who's actually gone sort of pale.

James, Remus, and Peter all look shocked. None of them are going to want to be friends with someone whose mother is a psychotic harpy. They probably think I'm a pureblood maniac already. I glare in the general direction of a rather sad-looking kipper on James's plate. I'm biting my lip, and to my horror, there are tears of anger and shame in my eyes.

"If you want to sit somewhere else that's fine. Everyone's staring at the rest of you because you're next to me."

"I'm fine sitting here, actually," Remus is first to respond. "So, Peter, do you think Runcorn fouled Cassidy or not?"

Peter jumps a little—he's still staring at me, open-mouthed. "Umm, I wasn't there or anything. I don't really know. I'm not for Godolphin or Wimbourne, actually. My team's Kilkenny."

"Oh yeah, they've got a brilliant Seeker." James says. "Mironova is amazing. She caught the Snitch in thirty-two minutes when she was playing for Portree. Thirty-two minutes. I can't imagine what Kilkenny did to get ahold of her. A lot of gold must've changed hands, right, Sirius?"

As unbelievable as it seems, the other boys seem to be not only purposely steering away from the subject of my letter, but including me in their conversation as well.

"Yeah. Maybe Kilkenny's team captain sold his soul as well." I smile weakly at the three of them.

"Hey, they aren't that bad!" Peter protests. "Mironova will make them loads better anyway. You'll see, they've only played one game yet."

"Weren't they bottom of the league last year?" I tease.

"Well, yeah, they were. They'll get better, though."

"First time in maybe ten years it hasn't been the Cannons last," James says. "When you're topped by Chudley you know you're bad."

"How did they even get Mironova, if they're that bad?" I ask.

"Well that's the question, isn't it? How on earth did they score Mironova?"

"Dark Magic." Remus says suddenly in a mock-spooky tone. "Woooooo…." He moans dramatically.

We're all laughing our heads off again.


	3. The Only Place on Earth Where

I am not J.K. Rowling. (sniff, sniff...) I own none of my characters. I only provide my versions of their childhood selves.

* * *

Chapter Three: The Only Place on Earth Where Attack Trees are Normal

The Charms teacher, Flitwick, has got to be the shortest man I've ever seen.

"James! Pssst, James. D'you think he's part goblin?"

"I dunno, wouldn't he have pointy ears?"

"Mr. Potter and Mr. Black," Flitwick's noticed us talking. "Have you been paying any attention to my lesson whatsoever? Tell me, either of you, how I would cause an ordinary object to blend into shadow."

James's blank expression tells me he's got as little idea of the answer as I do.

"Turn the lights off, sir?"

Even Flitwick has to laugh.

"Well, Mr. Potter, that would indeed work. Another, more magical method would be to use the Silhouette Charm. If you could come up to the front of the class for a little demonstration, please."

James shoots me a slightly worried look. I shrug at him.

"The Silhouette Charm is actually very simple, despite its dramatic effect." Professor Flitwick intones. "The wand motion should be a sharp jab, like so—" He thrusts his wand toward James. "And the incantation the phrase 'Humbrae Surrexit.' Thus, the charm is as such—'Humbrae Surrexit!'"

The effect is immediate. James appears as a silhouette, similar to a shadow reflected on a wall. Black and two-dimensional, he is a flattened-out shape standing upright and examining his own arms.

"Wow, cool. I'm completely flat!"

Flitwick jabs with his wand again, and James expands outward, regaining color, back to normal once more.

"Since I doubt any of you will have the spell power necessary for a human being, I would like you to practice on these—" He waves his wand and a host of small objects fly off his desk, one landing in front of each of us. I get a snuffbox, Remus a goblet, and Peter some sort of seashell. A miniature tea kettle, which couldn't hold more than one cup of water, lands on James's unoccupied desk.

The Silhouette Charm turns out to be quite easy. James and I both manage to work it on our second try—it doesn't work at all for me first time, and then darkens all in one go, while James's first try works partially, leaving him with a strange, distorted kettle. Remus gets it fourth time, and Peter finally manages it by the end of the class, unlike poor Gloria Telfair, who still hasn't made any headway at all. Evans is the only person to get a perfect charm first try, and Flitwick awards five points to Gryffindor.

"Oi, Remus, what've we got next?" James asks as we all get our bags together and swarm out of the classroom.

"One sec." Remus digs around in his bag for a while and then pulls out a neatly folded schedule. "Potions with the Slytherins. In the dungeons."

"Oh great, the Slytherins. Why do we always put together for Potions? The teachers must know we hate each other. It's like they want someone to get poisoned."

"I'd poison Rosier if I could get away with it," I say, remembering him laughing at me at breakfast.

"Yeah, he does seem like a jerk, doesn't he? What about Snivellus on the train, huh? Weird-looking bloke."

"Snivellus?" Remus and Peter echo.

"That Snape kid who ended up in Slytherin, black hair, kind of scrawny-looking, you know who I'm talking about. Sirius nicknamed him that."

"Cause he seemed really whiny and sarcastic, so that's where I got sniveling, and his first name's Severus. Thus, Snivellus. Ta-da. A masterpiece of nicknaming." I grin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, a masterpiece!" James says.

"Excuse me, does it look like any of us are 'ladies' to you?" Remus says, gesturing around at the four of us.

"Right you are. Gentlemen and more gentlemen, then."

We've reached the dungeons by now. Despite how disappointed my parents are with me, I'm still fervently glad I'm not in Slytherin, even if it's just because I'd hate to have my dormitory down here. I know the Slytherin dorm is in the dungeons, under the lake, which sounds uncomfortable, gloomy, and downright soggy to me.

All the Slytherins are already clustered outside the door to Professor Slughorn's room, and several of the Gryffindor girls are there already too. As the four of us stand next to the girls, I feel somebody poke me on the shoulder.

"What?" I say, turning halfway around.

The poker is a Slytherin I don't recognize, a stocky boy with reddish blond hair.

"Hey, Black, nice letter your mum sent."

"Shut up."

"Why? It's reassuring to know someone in your family has some pride. Gryffindor is just a bunch of dirt-addled fools."

"Shut up or I'll hex you."

"No you won't. You won't want to be in trouble."

"Watch me." I pull my wand out. James twists around, staring at both of us. He's only just noticed what's happening. Remus has got his hand in his pocket—holding his wand, I'll bet. Peter is glancing back and forth between me and the Slytherin boy, eyes wide.

"You're not going to curse me," the other boy sneers. His wand is drawn too now.

At that point, the door to the dungeon swings open, and the fat man with the moustache I saw talking to Dumbledore at breakfast exits the classroom.

"Come in, come on in, we're a few minutes late for the lesson already. My mistake, always takes me a few days to get back into school rhythm." Professor Slughorn beckons us into the classroom, smiling jovially, and completely failing to notice that two of his students were about to start a fight.

The Slytherin boy takes a desk at the front of the room, glowering at me. I give him my most vicious expression as the four of us Gryffindor boys find seats at the back.

"Who is that git?" I hiss to James.

"Mulciber, I think. No clue what his first name is, though. His father works with International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry, my dad's had to deal with him a few times. Says he's the argumentative type."

"Well, we know where this one got it from, then." I say.

The name is familiar to me, actually. My own father has spoken of the elder Mulciber several times, always in admiration, and I think there were some on our family tree. My maternal grandmother's second cousin married a Mulciber or something like that.

Slughorn clears his throat with a loud trumpeting noise at the front of the room. "Get out all of your ingredients, please; I always like to start the year with a practical lesson. Instructions are"—he waves his wand—"on the board."

We're supposed to be making a simple medicinal potion that cures boils, and Slughorn is sort of hovering around the room peering into people's cauldrons, and chatting with certain of us, Mulciber included, about any famous relatives. From what I've heard of Slughorn, he's almost like a collector of promising students—talented, wealthy, good-looking, etc. He likes to be influential. He certainly knows my family, and about half of us must have been through his House during his teaching career. However, probably because of the Howler, he passes over me. Whether he thinks I'm useless because of it, or whether he just doesn't want to bring up my family and our tradition of being in his House, I don't know. I think after the Howler he wants to spare me some embarrassment at the moment, which is good of him.

Potions is more difficult for me than Charms, since instead of relying on magical knowledge or skill, you have to follow specific instructions to succeed. Following instructions is not exactly my area of expertise. It's quite boring to sit at a desk in a dark room chopping up daisy roots and stewing frog eyes, and I'm still distracted over Mulciber. James also looks unfocused; he's chopping his roots unevenly, and staring off into space as if thinking over something important. Remus is carefully measuring and cutting his ingredients. Peter is rifling around looking for frog eyes.

The only two people who seem to be really enjoying themselves are Evans and Snape, who are sitting together, on the border between the bunched-up Gryffindors and the similar group of Slytherins. Their heads bent over their cauldrons, they stir enthusiastically. The savory smell emanating from their cauldrons is much more appetizing than, for instance, the acrid smoke that flows from Peter's when he knocks a skinned lemming into it by mistake at the end of the period.

"That was unbelievably dull." I say as soon as we're out of Slughorn's earshot, heading to lunch. "You don't even need any magic at all, practically. You just need to be able to count ingredients."

"Well, clearly you haven't got the subtle mind necessary for a potioneer." Snape says smugly, walking past with Rosier and Mulciber. All three of them smirk.

I open my mouth to reply, but James grabs my arm. "No, wait. We'll get them later."

"What do you mean?" I whisper.

"You said you were going to curse Mulciber. Why not the other two as well?"

"But won't they know Sirius did it?" Peter asks anxiously.

"Not if somebody else does it from behind while Sirius is directly in front of them." Remus says. "That is your plan, James?"

"Pretty much, yeah. I thought whoever did the hexing might hide or something. So, anybody know any good jinxes?"

"Would we want something like uncontrollable scratching, or maybe a nose growth spell? Not that Snivellus needs that one." I'm grinning now, thinking of the look on Mulciber's face when he realizes he's got a beak like a toucan.

"And do I want to know how you know so many hexes, Sirius?" James is raising an eyebrow—just one. _Why does it seem like everyone except me can do that?_

"Trust me, you'd know plenty too, if you had a holy terror of a cousin who thinks it's funny to tie people to chairs and use them for target practice."

"Ouch, that sounds awful."

"She wasn't entirely unprovoked. I made all her hair fall out when she was sleeping as a prank. She went ballistic—Bella's very proud of her hair."

"If we use a time-delay curse, then there'll be even less chance any of us will be caught," Remus muses. "I don't know any, though."

To our surprise, Peter starts to laugh. "I do. There's a jinx that does wiggly ears—my mum and my auntie use it on each other sometimes for fun. It starts off just like a little quiver every so often, but if you don't get it off in a couple hours, eventually your whole head starts jerking around."

We take a quick vote on whether to use this spell, comparing the easy-to-get-away-with aspect with the fact that we might not be able to see it in its full glory. The consensus is that it's worth it. As we leave the Great Hall, we position ourselves directly behind the three Slytherins. Since I want to hex Mulciber badly, and a time delay jinx isn't as risky, I get to be in on it as well. Remus keeps a lookout as the other three of us surreptitiously point our wands. It doesn't go off quite as planned. I get Mulciber alright, but Peter misses Rosier completely and hits Snape just as James does, causing his ears to twitch so uncontrollably his whole head vibrates from side to side. He overbalances and falls over. Everyone who's nearby bursts out laughing, and further away people crowd around to see.

"Get him to the hospital wing, quickly, I've got Herbology." Mulciber snaps.

Rosier flings an arm around Snape, dragging him up on his feet and off up the stairs, leaving the crowd of laughing students behind. Snape gives us an extremely dirty look as his head continues to jerk around. Mulciber catches up with another group of Slytherins on his way out to the grounds. As they leave the building, I catch sight of his left ear, wiggling just slightly.

"Merlin, that was the funniest thing I have ever seen." James is still laughing when we reach Transfiguration class.

"It really wasn't funny at ALL." Evans looks worried. "What if he got hurt?"

"Oh come off it, Evans, he's just some git from Slytherin. Why'd you even sit with him in class, anyway?"

"He's actually quite nice, Potter. If you bothered to get to know him instead of hexing him."

"How'd she find out it was us?" James hisses when Evans goes into the classroom, a minute or two early.

"Well, I'd have to say it was pretty obvious. She was right behind us, anyway." Remus looks a little anxious. "D'you think we'll be in trouble?"

"Depends on if Evans tells." I say. "Somehow I don't think she will. If I'm wrong, though, she's in there blabbing to McGonagall right now."

It seems I'm right. Evans isn't anywhere near McGonagall's desk when we go in with the rest of the class. In fact, McGonagall isn't anywhere near her own desk. There's a tabby cat curled up on the floor next to it, though. Evans is in the front row, getting her textbooks in order.

Once everyone's taken their seats, we all start glancing around, looking for McGonagall. At almost exactly the same time class should start, Mary Macdonald, who's sitting in front next to Evans, screams. Everyone immediately looks over. The tabby cat is no longer a cat. It is now transforming into McGonagall.

"How did you DO that?" I yell, jumping out of my seat.

"I am an Animagus, Mr. Black." McGonagall says dryly. "Please take a seat."

Several people around the room gasp at her revelation. I sit back down.

"For those of you who are unaware, an Animagus is a witch or wizard who can transform into a certain animal at will. Animagism is an extremely difficult, complex art, one that is only achieved after years of study, and by those of powerful skill. It is by no means something taught at Hogwarts. Even a basic human transfiguration will not be attempted until N.E.W.T. level. But for those with the talent and work ethic to excel in Transfiguration, the magical rewards are numerous. We will begin class by attempting to transform a matchstick into a needle."

Matches into needles is nowhere near is interesting as professors into cats, but I manage. It's amazing, watching my matchstick stretch, taper at the ends, sharpen itself, and turn silvery. James is the only person to fully transform his match. Mine has a few flecks of wood grain along its length. Evans's is almost perfect as well, except the end, instead of being a point, is still the sulfur-coated tip of the match. As much as he tries, Remus's is only about two-thirds transformed by the end of class, and he's concentrated intently on it, wand pointed, teeth clenched, for the whole period. The most anyone else has is half-match, half-needle, and a few people don't seem to have made any progress whatsoever.

It's becoming clear which of the Gryffindors are going to do best at school. I'm really surprised that Evans is doing so well, since I've always been told talent directly relates to magical blood, and she's Muggle-born. I'm not surprised that magic comes easily to me. I've never found spells done with borrowed wands difficult, even when I was little. I've been good at most things anyone's ever taught me—Latin, French, cartography, and the other things pureblood kids are tutored in from childhood.

McGonagall doesn't seem disappointed that so many people haven't accomplished anything, telling us that Transfiguration is extremely difficult, and "continued practice is the most effective method of improvement".

"Come on, let's hurry, I want to get a look at the Whomping Willow before Herbology." James says excitedly as we leave. "Frank Longbottom from third year said it's new this term. They're supposed to be really dangerous."

"Wonder why they planted it?" I say curiously. "I mean, it's not like there aren't enough dangerous things at Hogwarts already. Not that I'm complaining—bet it's bloody awesome. I mean, imagine an attack tree."

"Maybe we shouldn't check it out," Remus says with a hint of caution. "I mean, it's probably really vicious. And we need to be at Greenhouse One in ten minutes."

"Oh come on, don't be a sissy. Good idea, James. We can definitely get there and then to the greenhouses in ten minutes if we run."

"Slow down, you herd of rampaging rhinoceroses! You'll kill someone!" a rather fussy-looking man in a black suit and lacy cravat calls out from a portrait on the wall.

We almost knock over a group of Hufflepuffs on our way down a spiral staircase, dash across the entrance door, and sprint over the grounds towards where the Willow looms. Peter, being much shorter than the other three of us, not to mention rather plump, is quite a bit slower, lurching along behind. We're all breathing hard by the time we stop some fifty feet in front of the Willow, though. It's a big tree, with a thick trunk and heavy-looking branches. It appears almost sleeping, its branches swaying softly back and forth, even though it's a calm, windless day.

"It's not like I pictured it." James says, sounding disappointed. "I thought it'd be thrashing around, you know, actually _whomping _things."

"Whomping willows only attack when provoked." Remus informs us.

"Right then, let's provoke it," I say, stooping to pick up a flat rock about as big as my palm.

"That might be a bad idea, Sirius."

"We're far away enough so it can't get at us." I say. "We'll be fine, don't freak out."

I throw the rock so that it hits the nearest branch. The effect is instantaneous. All the tree limbs rise and begin to writhe like the tentacles of some massive creature. They sail through the air, some crashing down on the ground with loud banging noises. The tree thrashes back and forth, its motions slowly becoming less violent, until it once more appears to slumber.

"That was brilliant," I say. Like me, James is grinning. Peter is wide-eyed, astonished. Remus stares up at the Willow, an odd, strained expression on his face.

We run all the way to Herbology, and are panting when we get there, somewhat late. Class has already started, and the other students—we have Herbology with the Ravenclaws—are grouped up at tables, each bearing a rather reedy-looking potted plant. We can't sit together, since very few chairs are left. James and I end up at a table with two Ravenclaw boys, while Remus and Peter sit by Macdonald and Fishwick from our House. Our Herbology class consists of taking notes on the care and keeping of young Tenue plants, the matured stalks of which are apparently useful in Calming Droughts. The teacher, Professor Sprout, a plump, smiley young witch, is new this year. I'm glad, because according to my cousins the old teacher, now retired, was rather grumpy, not to mention half-deaf.

My first day of school was very full, but I'm still excited, not tired at all, lying in bed up in Gryffindor Tower late that night. Just a week ago, I was in Ollivander's with my parents, being chosen by my brand-new, red-oak-and-dragon-heartstring wand. Just a week ago, I was worrying about whether or not I would end up in Slytherin. Right now, I've had my first day of classes, and I can already tell I'll get very good marks. I'm not in Slytherin, and my entire family is enraged over this. I'm happy in Gryffindor, and it seems like the other boys in my year genuinely like me. They don't care that my family is insane. They're not angry at me.

Ollivander's, the house on Grimmauld Place, Kreacher, worries over being Sorted, the Howler at breakfast, Mulciber and the other Slytherin boys—it all seems like ages ago. And we managed to hex two of them. I grin at the thought of Snape thrashing around, being dragged off by Rosier. We didn't even get into any trouble.

"Sirius?" It's James, calling softly from across the dorm.

"Yeah?"

"You want to go out? Like, exploring?"

"As in, breaking school rules? Leaving the tower after curfew?"

"Well, yeah. If you'd rather stay in…"

"Hell no, I'm in."

* * *

Up next: Marauding. Lots of Marauding. And a bit of Ted/Andromeda!

Please review me, I like hearing what my readers have to say. I know the first few chapters have been a little slow, but my beta tells me it gets really good later on, I'm not just flattering myself.


	4. An Introduction to Marauding

The characters and general plotlines of this story belong to J.K. Rowling, and I make no profit off of them. This is unfortunate as I'm rather broke.

* * *

Chapter Four: An Introduction to Marauding

James and I creep through the dark common room, lit only by smoldering embers in one of the fireplaces. The Fat Lady swings open sleepily for us, and with only a disgruntled "Really, you two ought to be in bed," we're off. We end up rambling along down a fourth floor corridor, disturbing the occasional dozing portrait, but overall trying to be sneaky and quiet, wand tips lit to illuminate the way ahead.

"Oi, James, look, I bet I can get this thing out." I've stopped next to a suit of armor with an axe clamped in its metal hands.

"D'you think we could find another one? I haven't seen any more armed ones yet, but if we could find another, we could have an axe fight."

"An axe fight? Sounds fun. Wow, this is really stuck—hey!" Suddenly, the axe lurches sideways with a creaking, disused sort of noise.

"Sirius, look!" James is pointing at a large, gilt-framed mirror, which is jutting about an inch off its mounting on the wall, revealing a dark gap.

"Did that just happen?"

"Yeah, when you moved the axe. You think it's a lever?"

"Let's see." I jerk the axe back into its original place, and the mirror falls back to the wall. "Right, I'll open it again."

Since the axe only pushes the mirror slightly ajar, the two of us drag the mirror further out—there are hinges, which are unlocked by moving the axe—revealing a cavernous, heavily cobwebbed chamber, about as large as the average classroom. A dark, winding passageway, almost a tunnel, extends from one corner.

We're about to step over the bit of wall still left under where the mirror was, when we hear a very ominous noise.

A cat purring, a short distance around the corridor's bend. Then a human voice, "Come on, my sweet. We still have this whole floor to patrol."

James looks as horrified as I feel.

"Filtch." He mouths.

"Get this thing shut and run." I mouth back.

We ease the mirror back as slowly as we dare. As it settles into its socket, the axe clicks backward. We turn and run like we never have before. There's a shout from Filtch and a cat's yowl, but we're racing back through the hallways, waking portraits all along the way. We finally screech to a halt outside the Fat Lady's painting, clutching stitches in our sides and yelling the password.

"Alright, alright, patience is a virtue, you know. You wouldn't be in such a hurry if you weren't out after curfew. What did I tell you when you left? I suppose you ran into the caretaker, didn't you? Now what did I tell—"

"Look, would you mind shutting up and letting us in?" I ask.

"How rude of you." The Fat Lady complains as she swings outward. "Mark my words, you'll be in trouble when they catch you."

"If they catch us. They won't."

We're up to the dormitory, where Remus and Peter are still asleep, missing all the fun, before we talk about the mirror-door. We decide to check where the tunnel leads the weekend after this one, during the first Hogsmeade trip, when everyone third year and above will be out of the castle and it'll be unlikely anyone will disturb us.

At breakfast the next morning, we regale Peter and Remus with a stirring and only slightly exaggerated tale of our adventure. Peter in particular is awestruck, gazing at us like we're heroes for sneaking out. There's a great deal of speculation on where the passage leads, with suggestions ranging in dangerousness from "probably some boring classroom somewhere" to "the lair of a manticore, in the middle of the Forbidden Forest." As we're all shouting Remus down on that one, a large screech owl I don't recognize drops a letter in front of my porridge bowl. Even though it's an ordinary envelope, we all look at it suspiciously, remembering yesterday's Howler. I open it rather gingerly, wondering if my aunt Druella, Narcissa, Andromeda, and Bellatrix's mother, has somehow managed to figure out how to send curses by owl post.

_Dear Sirius, _the letter begins. "Dear" is always a good sign. At this point, anything that doesn't begin with "I am so ashamed of you" is a good sign.

_Dear Sirius,_

_The news of your Sorting has just reached me from your mother, who, needless to say, was not pleased. She mentioned having sent you a Howler, which will probably have arrived by the time you receive this. Congratulations on diverging from the typical family path. I sometimes wish I had had the courage to forge my own way at Hogwarts. Clearly, as a new Gryffindor, your courage is in no way lacking. I suppose I wrote this to let you know that not everyone in our family is outraged. Personally, I think it is about time the Blacks experienced a little variety. _

_Good luck at Hogwarts._

_Alphard_

I'm smiling as I finish the letter. Alphard is my mother's much older brother. He's not married, has no children, has worked in goblin relations for decades, and is rather a loner. Apparently, he's also the only member of my family, possibly except Andromeda, who doesn't currently want to kill me.

"Who was that?" James asks curiously, opening up a package I assume was sent him from home.

"My uncle." I say. "He's actually pleased I got in Gryffindor. He's my mother's brother, not that you'd know it from the letter _she _sent."

"Yeah. It did seem a bit…crazy." Remus says.

"My grandparents gave 100 percent of their rationality to Alphard. By the time my mother came along, there was nothing left."

"Hey, look, my mum and dad sent some candy. You guys want anything? Sirius, mate, I know you don't like licorice. Sorry. Maybe they'll send some chocolate next time." As James passes licorice wands around, I start back into my breakfast.

The rest of the next two weeks passes quickly enough, although we're all looking forward to exploring the secret passageway. Most classes are exciting and interesting. We have Astronomy on the top of the tallest tower at midnight on Thursdays—or is it Fridays? History of Magic is the world's most boring class, exactly as rumored. James speculates that ghostly Professor Binns somehow managed to bore _himself_ to death, a rare feat. I'm particularly good at Charms and Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, where we're learning about animals such as kelpies and Red Caps, is fascinating. Remus knows much more than the rest of us about these dark creatures, and has his hand up almost constantly. I want to know how to duel people, but I have no such luck.

Evans and Snape quickly become Slughorn's favorite potions students. Almost every time we have a practical lesson, he's exclaiming about their "creative, flawlessly executed" mixtures, particularly Snape's. After the twitchy ears incident, there's a definite sense of enmity between Snape and the four of us, particularly James and me. Every time Slughorn praises one of Snape's ingredient experiments, he smirks across the classroom at us. A feud is starting to develop between him and the two of us. For our part, we lose no chance to make fun of him. Wands are drawn as well, and we learn why Snape has a reputation for knowing lots of curses. The two of us together are more than capable of holding our own against him, though.

The Thursday night before our planned tunnel exploration, Remus excuses himself from the table at dessert, saying he feels sick and wants to go to the hospital wing. He's been looking a bit pale all day, and only picking at his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding tonight. We offer to go up to hospital with him, but he says he's fine on his own.

"D'you think he's okay?" Peter asks nervously, watching Remus quietly leave the Great Hall.

"Yeah, he'll be fine," James says, helping himself to apple pie.

Remus doesn't come back to the Gryffindor common room, though, even though we stay up late waiting for him, not to mention playing a massive round of Exploding Snap with Frank Longbottom and a couple other third-years.

We expect he'll come back in while we're getting a few hours of sleep before Astronomy, but when we wake ourselves up just before midnight, he's still not in his bed. He's not in the class either, and we don't see him at all until he comes in rather late to breakfast the next day.

"I spent the night in the hospital wing." He says quickly, noticing our questioning glances. "Nothing major, Madam Collins just wanted to keep an eye on me. Said I looked a bit peaky. Did I miss anything in Astronomy?"

"Nah, we just looked at some cloud patterns on Venus. Apparently they were unusual or something, just looked like a lot of blurry dots to me." I say.

"First flying lessons this afternoon!" James announces excitedly. "Not that I need to learn, but I haven't flown since I left home."

Although I don't really play or follow Quidditch—James actually plays, and the other two have favorite teams—I do like to fly. Soaring around in the air like a bird is exhilarating, although sometimes I'd like something more substantial than a broom underneath me, particularly if I'm doing trick flying.

When we go out on the lawn after our last class of the day, Defense, a flock of first-years are congregated around lines of brooms. All the school brooms are battered and rather dilapidated. They've seen way better days. James and I push our way to two of the best-looking.

James makes a disgusted noise as he stares down at his broom, which has several of its tail twigs sticking out at odd angles.

"I had a better broom than this when I was six," he says.

I did too, now that he mentions it.

"I fly a Silver Arrow Nightstrike at home. Zero to sixty in ten seconds. This thing wouldn't even go sixty in a hurricane."

The Nightstrike is a really good broom, one of the best there is. Expensive, too.

There's a derisive snort from Snape, standing across from us. He turns and mutters something to the Slytherin girl standing next to him, who laughs. It sounds a lot like "spoiled rich kids" to me.

"What's the matter, Snivellus, jealous you couldn't buy one? Bet you ride some piece-of-crap broom like these at home too." I say loudly. Several people nearby laugh at Snape's expense, and he flushes blotchily.

"You think you're—"

But the flying instructor interrupts Snape's angry retort with a shriek of her whistle. After a few minutes of lecture, we're told to call our brooms up. James's leaps into his hand immediately, but mine, unlike the Comet racing broom I have at home, rises somewhat jerkily.

"Stupid broom," I mutter.

Snape's broom just rolls around on the ground a lot, though. He has to call it four times before it finally comes up. By that time, a good half-dozen people, me and James included, are laughing.

We mount our brooms, and the instructor walks around correcting seats and grips. James has perfect form, she announces appreciatively, but I need to re-arrange my thumbs slightly.

On the count of five, we all rise. James lets out an involuntary whoop, happy to be in the air once again. He is a brilliant, instinctual flyer, I can already tell.

"How was I supposed to know she'd be mad?" I ask, laughing, as we leave the flying lesson, over the course of which I've managed to receive my first detention. Apparently gripping with your knees while hanging upside down off your broom and waving your arms is not encouraged. Particularly if it is in the context of pretending to fall off.

"'This sort of behavior is immature and irresponsible, not to mention potentially dangerous'" James mimics Madam Hooch's voice.

"Well, it was fun." I shrug.

My detention, to be served tonight, isn't anything odious, just lines, although that's boring. The phrase I'll be writing is "I will act my age."

Being punished by a teacher is a little odd for me, since the tutors I've had at home wouldn't have dared to give me any sort of punishment themselves. I probably deserve it, though.

There's a funny story going around at dinner, which Alice Musson tells us excitedly about. Apparently, Rosmerta Peakes, who's a Hufflepuff sixth year, heard in a letter from her parents, who run the pub in Hogsmeade, that last night very strange noises were heard from an old abandoned house on the outskirts of the village.

"Shrieking and yelling," Alice says, her round face shining with the pleasure of telling a good story. "Like spirits. It's probably been haunted by a really nasty ghost."

"Yeah, I bet it's something vicious!" James says excitedly. "It might be a ghoul, though, not a ghost. What do you think, Resident Expert on Dark Creatures?"

"Dunno. Might be either," Remus says, looking down at his plateful of stuffed cabbage in embarrassment. He's probably a little self-conscious about how good he is at Defense against the Dark Arts.

By 11 o'clock on Saturday morning, the castle is almost empty. Everyone except the very youngest students is in Hogsmeade.

The four of us, dodging Alice and Mary's request for a game of Snap, leave the common room and creep over to the fourth floor corridor where the mirror is.

"So you jerk the axe like this—Sirius discovered it sort of accidentally—and see, the mirror comes out a bit. You have to pry it open the rest of the way, though."

The four of us quickly manage to get the mirror open wide enough to step through.

"Gross, look at all the cobwebs," Peter wrinkles his nose.

"That's a good thing; it means we're the only ones who've been here in a long time." Remus tells us. We clamber through the gap, checking to make sure the mirror will open from the inside. There's a spring catch you can use to release the hinges, and then push the mirror the rest of the way.

We light our wand tips again to make sure we can see at least a foot in front of our faces, and then close the mirror.

"Let's get rid of this junk," James says, pointing his wand at the cobwebs. "Scourgify!"

A substantial amount of the cobwebs vanish.

"How'd you know that one?" I ask, trying it out myself.

"Basic household cleaning spell. My mum has me help out with chores a lot."

"Oh. We have a house-elf, so no one knows how to clean things at all in my family."

"What are house-elves like? I've never met one." Remus asks curiously as we enter the tunnel.

"Well ours is quite nasty, but usually they're not too bad. Kreacher hates me though."

"Why?"

"He worships my mother, and you heard how she feels about me—"

The end of my sentence is cut off as the floor of the tunnel drops away. All four of us are yelling as we sweep away on what appears to be some kind of steep slide.

"Make sure your wands don't break!" James shouts, so we hold tight to them.

Riding this stone slide would actually be fun if we had any idea where we were headed. A few minutes later, we round a bend, and we all scream. We're heading directly for a blank wall. _I'm going to die_. That's all that crosses my mind as we speed toward the end. Just when we're about to smash into the wall, it suddenly disappears, and we're all launched out into the open air like cannonballs. I get a brief glimpse of wildflower-adorned hills, houses spread out below, before we fly directly into a couple snogging, knocking them over and scattering all of us sprawled on the ground. James's glasses are dangling from his right ear. He pulls them up to their ordinary position, wincing.

"Ouch." The boy I've fallen on top of groans. "That bloody hurt."

I recognize him from Hogwarts. He's in Gryffindor like us, and I realize he's the fair-haired boy who was so shocked by my mother's Howler.

I glance over to the left at whoever he's been snogging here. The girl lies on the ground, in a patch of Queen Anne's Lace, her long dark hair all over her face. She struggles to a seated position, spitting hair out of her mouth.

"Sirius?" Her large, light brown eyes—very familiar eyes—widen in shock.

"Andromeda?"

"Wait, that's your cousin, right?" James and the older boy say at the same time. Andromeda and I both nod. She's looking at me very worriedly. She opens her mouth as if she's going to speak, but then doesn't. Finally, she takes a deep breath.

"Sirius, will you please not tell anyone? Either my parents or yours. And definitely not Narcissa. If she knows, the whole family knows. Please don't tell."

She sounds almost pleading, which is odd because I'm used to her being bossy.

"Why would they care about you having a boyfriend? Narcissa's got one, doesn't she? They're not mad at her."

"Yes, but…Ted is Muggle-born."

"Oh. Yeah. That might present some difficulty."

Somehow I doubt my aunt and uncle would be exactly jumping for joy over this new development. They're just as pureblood-obsessed as my own parents. If my mother was so angry over my being Sorted into Gryffindor, news of Andromeda dating a Muggle-born would put the whole family over the edge.

"Bellatrix will have a stroke." I say, grinning at the thought.

"Well, if all goes well, Bellatrix won't find out about us any time soon."

"You know, someday they'll have to know." Andromeda's boyfriend—Ted—sounds a little disgruntled. "We can't hide it forever. It's hard, when nobody except you even knows I like you. Keeping it a secret like this."

"You heard my aunt's Howler—my whole family's like that. They can't find out yet—we need to hide it for now."

"Dromeda, I've been with you since fifth year. I want someone to _know._"

"Well, all four of us know, obviously." I say. "If that helps at all."

"Thanks, I guess." Ted says.

"You won't tell, right? Any of you?" Andromeda asks.

"Trust me; I know what it's like to have the whole family angry at me. I'm not telling anyone."

"We don't even know your family—don't look at us." James jokes.

"Really, though, we'll keep your secret." Remus says earnestly.

"Thanks." Ted and Andromeda both smile.

"If we don't tell anyone you're together, you can't tell anyone, specifically Professor McGonagall, that we're in Hogsmeade illegally."

"We're in HOGSMEADE!" James yelps.

"Well, you two did go to Hogsmeade, right? I'm not jumping to conclusions?"

"Yeah, we're right outside the village," Ted says. "How'd you get here anyway?"

"Secret passage." I say mysteriously. "We didn't know where it went, though."

"Cool." Ted says. "Erm…if you could clear off, go to Honeydukes or something. Dromeda and I would like to get back to what we doing before you flew into us."

"We don't really get much time to see each other at school." Andromeda says apologetically.

We head downhill in the direction of the village, leaving Andromeda and Ted snogging again.

"I can't believe we got to Hogsmeade!" James says excitedly. "We won't have to wait for third year like everybody else. You do realize we could take that slide whenever we want, not just when the school trips are?"

There is a good deal of ecstatic commentary on the subject of sneaking out to Hogsmeade. We finally decide that, this trip at least, we are going to check out Honeydukes as Ted suggested. Since none of us brought any money, we can't buy anything, but it'll be nice to look.

A string of little bells hanging on a red ribbon tinkles merrily as we push the sweetshop door open.

"Oh, wow." Peter breathes. I feel like echoing him. The shop is crammed with towering shelves and little tables; every possible surface is laden with candy. Honeydukes is very popular with kids, evidently. Hogwarts students are everywhere, rummaging through a barrel of Every Flavor Beans or standing in line, clutching boxed Sugar Quills.

Half an hour later, having examined what seems like every possible type of sweet, both enchanted and non-magical, we leave the shop, pockets crammed with free-sample coconut creams. James wants to go check out the supposedly haunted shack on the other side of town, but Remus points out quickly that Frank Longbottom and a few other Gryffindor third-years were planning to do just that, and they'd recognize us. Since we don't want to be discovered in Hogsmeade illicitly, we end up wandering the village, stopping in various shops, munching on our coconut candy as we go. Finally, when students start trickling up the street toward school, we drag ourselves away from examining the wide array of different-potency Dungbombs at Dervish and Bangs joke shop, and hike back up to the hillside where we first met Andromeda and Ted. They're gone now, and the hill we came out appears no different than the others.

"What if we can't get back?" Peter asks nervously.

"Don't worry, it'll open up." I reply, confidently examining the grassy face of the hill. Five minutes later, though, we haven't managed to open the passage.

"Stupid thing, if we're stuck here—" James punches the hillside angrily, and a slab of earth slides away, revealing a gaping hole, and the slide, stretching upward.

"Looks like you have to knock," Remus says, smiling.

We clamber back into the passage, the wall sliding shut behind us.

"How're we supposed to get up this slide, though?" Peter wonders. I'm thinking the same thing.

"We could try climbing, I guess. But it looks too steep." Remus places his weight on the stone slide, balanced on his hands and knees. As he begins to shuffle upwards, the slide starts to shift, and he falls off, skidding backwards and landing at my feet. As I help him back up, the slide completes its transformation into a flight of stairs.

"Well, I suppose it changes when you try to go up." James says, starting on the stairs.

We're all pretty much exhausted by the time the staircase evens out into the tunnel, and the tunnel widens into the room behind the mirror. The stairs are steep, and it's a pretty long climb back from Hogsmeade. James opens the mirror just a crack and peers out.

"All clear, I think—wait, no, there are a couple Ravenclaws coming…okay, they're gone now, let's get out of here."

When we re-enter the common room, most of the older students are already back, and it's very crowded. We almost sneak in unnoticed, but Mary Macdonald and Lily Evans catch sight of us.

"Where were you all?" Evans asks, hands on her hips. "You haven't been here all day. I swear, if you've gone and hexed somebody…"

"Calm down, Evans," James says. "We didn't do anything. Coconut cream?" He offers her a rather smashed-looking one from his pocket.

"How did you get this?"

"That's for us to know and you to wonder about," James smiles at her confused, suspicious expression.

I catch sight of Frank Longbottom over near the fireplace, talking to Alice and a second-year girl whose name I don't know.

"Oi, Frank! Did you hear the ghost in Hogsmeade?"

"No! Not a peep. Guess it was just the one time," he calls back.

Remus is smiling slightly. "I don't think so. Maybe it only happens at night."

"Yeah, I guess." Frank still looks a little disappointed.

The four of us end up deciding taking the mirror passage to Hogsmeade is too time-consuming for during the week, so we relegate trips to the weekends. The weekend directly after we first used the passage is off-limits, though, because the first Quidditch match of the year, Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff, is then, and James is through the roof about it, talking Quidditch a mile a minute all the way down to the pitch.

"I think I'll try out for Chaser next year, even though I'd love to be Seeker. Ingram's only in fifth year, though, so that spot won't be open. Tonks and Shacklebolt are both seventh years, so there'll be an opening for Chaser and another for Beater. I won't go for Beater; I haven't got the build for that. So I'll be after Tonks's spot."

"That's, you know, Ted Tonks, right?" I'm trying to ask if he's Andromeda's boyfriend without actually going out and saying anything about Andromeda.

"Yeah, that one." James screws up his face with emphasis, making sure I know his meaning.

"Don't make that face too often, mate," I say. "Wouldn't want to get stuck looking like a constipated banshee."

"Hey—" James swats at me. I defend myself by kicking him in the shins. He grabs me around the shoulders, trying for a headlock. We fall to the ground, laughing and wrestling. With a shout of excitement, Remus and Peter jump on top of us. Eventually, the heap of bodies disentangles itself, and we make our way across the grounds once more.

All the Gryffindor first-years end up sitting at the very back of our section of the stands with Hagrid the gamekeeper. I'm mashed between Peter and James. Hagrid looms at the end of the row, a bulky shape in a moleskin overcoat. It's not the best day for a match, foggy and gray. But the sense of excitement that infuses the crowd is infectious. I've only been to a few Quidditch matches before—my family isn't really into the mingling-with-the-masses sort of thing. But the game is exciting from what I've heard from the other boys. Evans is sitting on James's other side. It's her first match ever, since she's Muggle-born.

"I played forward on a football team at home, though. Is it similar?"

"What's football?" James asks.

"Oh, never mind."

"What are Muggles like?" I ask curiously.

"Just like anyone, except no magic."

"How do you get things done?" Peter is incredulous.

"We manage." Evans says dryly. "Oh, look, people are going out on the field. Is it starting?"

James cranes his neck, straining to see both teams. The two captains stride onto the field. Shacklebolt from Gryffindor, a stocky, dark-skinned Beater, and one of the Hufflepuff Chasers, a girl named Dabney, shake hands. Madam Hooch's whistle blows shrilly. Fourteen players, seven in red, seven in yellow, rise into the air, hovering on their brooms. The game begins.

It's a close match—both the teams are quite good, although neither is brilliant. Ted Tonks manages to score a goal right off, but for quite a long time afterwards the score remains unchanged. Then Dabney gets two goals in quick succession for Hufflepuff, and play speeds up. She gets very close to a third goal, but drops the ball dodging a Bludger. Another Gryffindor Chaser catches it, and we score again, a tricky shot that could have gone either way. The rest of the game is fast-paced, with the score remaining relatively even. It's clear that whichever team manages to get the Snitch will win. Finally, when the points are 110-90 to Hufflepuff, James lets out a little squeal and grabs my arm.

"What?"

"The Snitch! Over there, by the Slytherin bleachers." There it is, when I look closely, a little fleck of gold about fifty feet up. I could never have spotted it if James hadn't pointed it out. Both the Seekers have noticed it too, and they streak towards the gold spot. Neck and neck, the two of them draw closer…

James jumps to his feet, punching the air. "Yes!"

Ingram circles away from the stands, soaring upward, the Golden Snitch clutched in her hand. The Gryffindor stands erupt with cheering.

There's an afterparty in the common room, which is loud and boisterous. Apparently the Gryffindor team has been mediocre at best for the last few years, and this win is a cause for raucous celebration. Ted Tonks alone out of the Gryffindor Quidditch team is absent, probably off celebrating with Andromeda somewhere. Several people who have stockpiled sweets from Honeydukes distribute them, and some seventh-year turns up halfway through the party with a platter of spice cake "from the kitchens."

"We have to find out how to get there!" James screams in my ear.

I'm about to respond when some dingbat sets off a crate of maximum-strength Dungbombs, and in the ensuing frenzy of coughing, retching and stampeding, anything anyone says is lost. When the common room has been vacated, and everyone has either run through the portrait hole or, like us, up to the dorms, the four of us collapse onto our beds to talk over every minute detail of the match.

The next months pass with only minor mishaps, including one rather memorable one involving a Trip Jinx, an accidental victim, Professor McGonagall, and mass detention. Hogwarts classes aren't really that challenging for either me or James, which means there is plenty of time for such engaging intellectual pursuits as Exploding Snap and magically tying knots in Severus Snape's hair from behind.

The four of us, or the Marauders, as we've started to call ourselves, find several new secret rooms and passageways, including another one that also leads to Hogsmeade. Lily Evans is very preoccupied with trying to find out where we get our Butterbeer from. James tells her we have contacts with an international band of dangerous Butterbeer smugglers.

The entrance to the Hogwarts kitchens is behind a painting of a fruit bowl on the ground floor. The Hogwarts house-elves are all cheery and cooperative, which is disconcerting to anyone who grew up with Kreacher. They're also only too happy to give us extra food, which is nice of them.

Remus disappears from school for two whole days around the middle of October, and again about a month later. He's not in the hospital wing either time when we check. Madam Collins tells us he's gone home to visit his mum, who's been taken suddenly ill. When he gets back, he reassures us that she's perfectly fine, but just gets sick often, and likes to have him around. It makes sense that she's sickly, because Remus himself is rather thin and pale. The first time he returns, he's got two rather nasty-looking gashes on his face.

"What happened?" Peter asks.

"My neighbors have a really mean cat," he mumbles.

"Big cat, huh?" I remark, looking at the size of the scratches.

"Possibly part tiger," he replies, mock-seriously.

"You need to stay away from that cat, mate," James tells him the second time he comes back, all scratched up again.

The Hogsmeade residents, Rosmerta Peakes's parents included, are very anxious over the abandoned shack, which randomly emits shrieks and moans at night now. The theory is that a tribe of violent, restive ghosts have taken up residence there, but no one wants to go close enough to find out. The four of us sneak out to Hogsmeade using the tunnel one evening, but it doesn't make a sound.

For my twelfth birthday, on November 22, James, Remus, and Peter wake up at four in the morning to assemble a complicated booby trap around my bed. It involves, among other things, a levitating broomstick, a wooden board, borrowed from Hagrid, acting as a seesaw, a platter of chocolate éclairs begged off the kitchen elves, and a giant sling made out of Peter's bedspread.

"Well, other than this lovely surprise, do I get any other birthday presents?" I ask, wiping smashed éclair off my face with a sheet.

"We bought you this nice, law-abiding, respectable Fanged Frisbee in Hogsmeade," James says, grinning as he offers a feebly twitching parcel to me.

"And we can eat the rest of the éclairs," Remus smiles triumphantly.

"There are a few other packages at the foot of the bed, but we don't know who they're from," James and Peter toss the other gifts up onto my bed.

"Probably my family. Proceed with caution." I say, unwrapping my totally-banned-from-the-Hogwarts-campus Fanged Frisbee.

The largest present turns out to be an expensive-looking, moving model of the solar system, encased in a glass sphere, from my uncle Alphard. Regulus has sent me a set of Gobstones, which is just as well, because I've managed to lose about half of my existing set over the last couple years. My parents seem to be still feeling threatened over my Sorting—their present turns out to be a hardcover copy of "Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy."

In past years, I've always gotten larger and fancier presents from my parents, such as my new racing broom for my last birthday, but skimping on me is only to be expected, considering their current attitude towards their little Gryffindor.

"This," I announce contemptuously, throwing the book under my bed, "is the sort of rubbish really snotty purebloods like my parents read to feel good about themselves."

After I unwrap Andromeda's present, a large bar of Honeydukes toffee chocolate, the only one left is a rather small, round, knobby one, from her parents.

"This is a really weird shape—wonder what it is?"

When I peel off the last few shreds of wrapping paper, Peter shrieks, James jumps up from where he's sitting, and Remus starts laughing. My aunt and uncle's present is a shrunken head.

"Really thoughtful present, that," Remus chokes. "Sweet of them."

There turns out to be a good use for it, though. We bewitch the head to follow Snape around the castle, floating creepily in front of his face and darting away whenever anyone tries to beat at it. "Nature's Nobility," however, meets a fiery end in the Gryffindor common room fireplace.

* * *

A/N: I know Tonks was in Hufflepuff, but I decided to put Ted in Gryffindor for the purpose of my plot. Also, having Ted be in Gryffindor and Andromeda be in Slytherin makes it even more of a Romeo and Juliet situation.

Also, I know J.K. Rowling intended James to have been a Chaser, not a Seeker, but I plan to have him play Chaser for a few years and then switch positions. I feel like certain things we see in SWM (doodling Snitches on his scrap paper, stealing one to play with it and generally show off his talent) indicate he was a Seeker at some point. Again, personal text interpretation/author preference.

My placement of Sirius's birthday (November 22) makes him a Sagittarius on the cusp of Scorpio. If you believe in astrology, this would make him loyal, passionate, brave, affectionate, hot-headed and rather reckless. Sounds like Sirius to me!


	5. Christmas at Grimmauld Place

I'm not J.K. Rowling. I'm not C.S. Lewis or Eva Ibbotson either, and if you can tell me how exactly I used their works, I'll give you a mention.

* * *

Chapter Five: Christmas at Grimmauld Place

All too soon, the first term is over, and by the 23rd of December, Hogwarts is emptying for Christmas break. Every year, we have Christmas dinner with my father's brother, Cygnus, his wife, and all three of my cousins. We alternate houses, and this year it's our turn to host. I am not exactly looking forward to seeing my whole family, or almost all of them at least, for the first time since I left in September.

My parents are still rather angry, and I don't really like my aunt and uncle's family at the best of times, except Andromeda. Narcissa's boyfriend, Lucius, is coming for the first time, to "meet the family." He's the Slytherin seventh-year prefect, the blond boy I've seen Narcissa talking to. He looks like a prat to me. He's also a pureblood, so the family should love him. At least Aunt Elladora—my great-aunt really—won't be coming this year. She's a bit antisocial, not to mention completely round the bend; she's the one who started the whole house-elf beheading thing.

Only a few people, Snape included, are staying at Hogwarts for the holidays, and the rest of us all re-board the train. Remus is chattering happily with James and Peter about how excited they are to be going home, despite the fact that he at least was there to visit his mum for the third time just last week. I'm silently dreading the discussion of my faults that I know will begin as soon as I get off the train.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter are on the platform when we arrive. They're older than my parents, almost old enough to be grandparents, but unlike my parents they look friendly and approachable. Mrs. Potter, who wears glasses like James, hugs all four of us.

"It's really nice to meet all of James's friends; he talks about you all the time in his letters."

"Come on, mum, you're embarrassing me."

I doubt they'd get hugs from my mother. And I haven't written home all term, so as far as my parents know, I don't have any friends.

Mr. Potter is tall and has the same very untidy hair his son does, except silver instead of black. He shakes all of our hands, and asks all of us our names. He looks me up and down when he hears who I am, which he doesn't do to either of the others, but he doesn't say anything.

"Your parents are really nice," I whisper in James's ear as he gets ready to leave. I wish my family was like the Potters seem.

"I'll send you letters, okay?" James says, reassuring me. "And don't worry—you'll be back at Hogwarts in no time. I'll try to see if you can come over for Easter break."

"That'd be great. Thanks," I quickly hug him, and he heads off the platform, waving over his shoulder at us.

We find Peter's mother at the other end of the platform. She's short, plump, and pointy-nosed, just like he is. She seems in rather a hurry to get out of the station.

"I'd love to stay and meet you two, but we have to get to my sister's house in Lancashire by five o'clock and she gets angry if we're late. Come on, Peter, get your trunk. Dad and Nicole are at Aunt Calista's already."

Nicole is Peter's younger sister, who's a year younger than us and will start at Hogwarts next year. According to Peter, she's quite a know-it-all, and wants to be put in Ravenclaw.

Neither Remus's nor my parents are there yet, so we push our trunks up against a wall and sit on them. We're debating getting the Exploding Snap cards out when my brother finally turns up.

"Mother! I found him!" Regulus yells over his shoulder. "Hey, Sirius."

"Hey." I hug him. He stiffens up a little, and then relaxes. My parents have probably been complaining about me to him all term.

I might as well do some introductions. "Regulus, this is my friend Remus; he's in Gryffindor with me. Remus, this is my little brother."

Regulus's eyes go huge. "Sirius—is he a Mudblood?" he whispers, just loud enough for Remus to hear. "Mother says half of Gryffindor is."

I hate my family sometimes.

Remus looks really uncomfortable. He's the only one of my friends at school who's halfblood—his father's from a Muggle family, so this is a touchier subject than it would be for James or Peter. Regulus has a sort of what-did-I-say expression. He doesn't even really understand calling someone a Mudblood is offensive, because our parents say it so much.

"No, he isn't. Don't call people that, Regulus. It's rude."

"All the grown-ups say it." Regulus says sulkily.

"Yeah, but when you go to Hogwarts, you'll get in trouble if you say that to someone."

I make the most apologetic face I can over the top of Regulus's head at Remus. He nods, smiling a little. I think he gets that I can't control my family. At some point, though, I'll have to get my brother to stop using the word.

I stopped when I was about seven; my mother had gone to Diagon Alley to buy new dress robes and took me for some reason. There was this little girl about my age who was in the shop as well, and we ended up talking about going to Hogwarts while our mothers tried robes on. She said she couldn't imagine being Muggle-born and getting the news all of a sudden like her mum had. I said something to the effect of "Mudbloods shouldn't be allowed in Hogwarts" and she started crying. Her mother overheard the whole thing and started yelling at my mother about how "children don't say things like that by themselves" and told her she should be ashamed of herself. Then my mother went all full-scale I-can-trace-wizarding-ancestry-back-to-the-twelfth-century on her, and the shopkeeper threw both of us out. It wasn't the yelling that made me stop using the word. It wasn't being thrown out of the shop either. It was the way the girl's mother looked at me, and at my mother. Sort of pity and disgust all mixed up together.

My mother arrives right then, looking down her nose at the three of us.

"Hello, Mother," I say, trying to communicate to Remus via hand signs to get out of here. She'll probably ask him if he's pureblood and otherwise make a huge fuss, and I'm embarrassed enough by Regulus's unconscious offensiveness. He doesn't need to deal with my mother's intentional brand of bigotry. I sigh with relief as Remus, understanding my signals, grabs his trunk and departs with a hasty "Happy Christmas, Sirius. See you back at Hogwarts."

"Happy Christmas, Remus," I say miserably, waving.

In the ten minutes it takes to get to Grimmauld Place from King's Cross, my mother manages to tell me I'm slouching five times, make about as many passive-aggressive mentions of my disappointing Sorting, and interrogate me on the parentage of "your little friend from the platform."

"I don't recognize Lupin as being a magical surname—is he pureblood?"

She snorts with displeasure at my answer.

"Well, at least he isn't a Mudblood himself. If you'd been put in Slytherin, you'd only get to know people of the proper sort."

And that clocks reference number six to my Sorting. Regulus looks at me triumphantly.

"See, she says 'Mudblood,'" he tells me.

This is going to be a very long holiday.

By the time my mother turns the snake-carved doorknob to our house, and Kreacher is fussing around underfoot trying to wipe dirt off everyone's shoes, I'm fervently longing for Hogwarts. I miss the warm, cozy, lived-in Gryffindor common room. The entrance hall to my house is narrow and claustrophobic, with heavy velvet drapes and the sort of very expensive carpeting you're afraid of stepping on. You can't touch about half the things in this place, because they're costly, breakable, or possibly cursed. And after my comfortable, twelve-year-old-boy-sized bed in the dorm at Hogwarts, my bedroom at Grimmauld Place feels huge, empty, and friendless that night.

It's not quite so bad, though. Although my mother and father mostly ignore me, Regulus wants to hear all about school. Sitting cross-legged facing each other on my bedroom floor the next morning, I tell him about classes and teachers, the castle and grounds. I describe the Whomping Willow and Quidditch matches, the two subjects he's most interested in, in great detail. I don't tell him anything about the secret passages we've found, though. That's a special Marauder secret.

"So _are _there any Mudbl—Muggleborns in your House?" he wants to know.

"Well, there's this one girl, Lily Evans, who's got Muggle parents."

"What's she like?"

"Bossy." I say, laughing. "But she's one of the best students in the year, actually."

"But they can't be as good at magic as purebloods, right?"

"I dunno, Regulus. She does pretty well."

"Not as good as you." Regulus says stubbornly.

When my father mentions at lunch that he's going to Knockturn and Diagon Alleys to pick up some Christmas presents, I ask to go with him. I haven't got Christmas presents for anyone but Regulus yet. For my brother I bought a box of Fizzing Whisbees on our last Hogsmeade excursion. They're only available at Honeydukes, and I know he'd like them.

Our first stop, for my mother's present, is Borgin and Burke's, a rather sketchy-looking shop in Knockturn Alley. Most of the Knockturn shops are sketchy, actually. I see a display of shrunken heads that makes me think my aunt and uncle shop around here, and what looks suspiciously like a medieval torture rack is visible behind a greasy glass window.

The display cases at Borgin and Burke's contain one of the strangest-looking collections of objects I've ever seen. The top shelf holds an assortment of potions in dusty bottles. Resting on brown velvet pillows in the foreground are a necklace of human teeth, a knife that looks like it's made out of sharpened stone, and an innocent-looking pink-and-white china teapot. I know enough about Dark devices to decide the teapot probably carries some sort of lethal curse.

"Please tell me you're not buying her the tooth necklace," I mutter.

"No, I've got something specially ordered," my father says.

At that point, a rather withered-looking old man comes out of a swinging door behind the counter. He's very short, barely up to my father's shoulder, and his bangs completely cover his eyes. When he sees my father, he immediately sinks into a low bow. He bows to me as well.

"Would this young master be yours, sir?"

"Yes—my older son, Sirius. A first-year at Hogwarts." He doesn't mention my Sorting, but from the shrewd glance the other man shoots me through his overlong hair, I gather he already knows. Great. Gossip travels everywhere.

"I've no time for pleasantries today, Burke. I spoke to Borgin earlier—I believe the crocodile has arrived?"

"The crocodile?" I ask, incredulously. If he's bought a live crocodile…

"A mummified Ancient Egyptian sacred crocodile. They're extremely valuable, very rare. Powerfully magical, too. This one was specially ordered." Burke announces.

"Fetch it, then, Burke," my father orders, like the old shopkeeper is a house-elf.

In a few minutes, Burke returns from the storeroom, holding a package wrapped in strips of cloth— about two feet long and very irregularly shaped.

"Six hundred Galleons, shall we say, sir?"

As we leave the shop, my father carrying what has got to be the world's most expensive dead crocodile, I tug on his sleeve.

"Can I have some money for my own presents now? I know my way around,"

"What? Oh yes, here you are."

I buy books for James and Remus at Flourish and Blott's—"100 Most Exciting Quidditch Matches" and "Minor Dark Creatures: Their Ways and Weaknesses." I decide to buy a present for my uncle Alphard—the note that came with my solar system model mentioned his favorite school subject was Astronomy, so I get a book of elaborate star charts as well. For my parents, I exact revenge by purchasing a large and ugly terracotta sculpture of a rooster that crows at the time of sunrise. At the same magical home furnishings store, I buy a set of needlepoint pillows that change colors hourly, for Cygnus and Druella.

"Try working that into your color scheme." I mutter. My aunt is famously obsessive about her décor.

I need to buy presents for all three of my cousins—they're all coming for Christmas and it would be awkward if I didn't. Even though Narcissa is annoying and Bellatrix and I hate each other. There is no way Lucius Malfoy is getting anything from me, though. I end up getting the three of them each a set of handkerchiefs with their initial monogrammed in the corner. Since I actually like Andromeda, I resolve to stuff her handkerchief box with some sort of food.

Speaking of food, I still need a present for Peter. I resolve to order Kreacher to make shortbread. Our house-elf, despite his many faults, is a very good cook.

When I sample Peter's shortbread that evening, it seems a little grittier than it usually does, but still good. Although Kreacher can't refuse a direct order from me, he seems to find little ways to screw up anything I tell him to do. Next time I'll have to get Regulus to give the order. Kreacher actually likes him.

I stuff some of the shortbread under the top layer of the "A" handkerchiefs, leaving the "B" and "N" ones untouched in their boxes, and start sending owls off with my friends' presents.

When I wake up, there are three packages sitting neatly in front of my bed, and James's fluffy gray owl is drinking out of Lacerta's water dish. I spring out of bed, grinning. My friends haven't forgotten me, not that I really thought they would. This is going to be the best part of an otherwise excruciating Christmas.

Peter seems to have had the same food idea I had. Or it could just be that he's completely obsessed with sweets. Either way, he's sent me a brick of fudge, which from the thumbprints on one side I can tell is homemade. It's very good, too. Remus's present is a book, entitled "Spells to Amuse the Wizard with a Short Attention Span." Thanks, Remus. I needed that gentle hint about my character. James's present, the largest, has a note pinned to its shiny gold wrapping paper.

_Merry Christmas, Sirius._

_Advance apologies to the extended Black family. _

_Have fun!_

The package is a sampler box of Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start No-Heat Fireworks. The special Christmas color package. I take one look at it, and start laughing hysterically.

My relatives are supposed to arrive around two o'clock. Kreacher takes a break from frantically cooking to put out a plate of bread and butter in the drawing room at noon, since we're supposed to eat the main meal at four. I've spent the morning reading in my bedroom. I've been looking through Remus's present, which has interesting moving diagrams and lots of promising spells.

I completely ignore my parents' present to me, which was also a book: a biography of Phineas Nigellus Black, which is slightly less odious than "Nature's Nobility," though still not exactly pleasure reading. There's a portrait of Phineas Nigellus in one of our spare bedrooms. If the portrait is anything like he was in life, which since it's a magical painting is likely, than the book will be hard-pressed to properly explain my great-great-grandfather's brand of spectacularly offensive sarcasm.

My parents themselves have been investigating the mythic powers of the crocodile, apparently.

At some point I hear an increase in the voices coming from downstairs.

"Sirius! Sirius! They're here, come on down!" Regulus's voice echoes up through the stairwell.

I bend over the banister to try and see into the front room. I can see Bellatrix's glossy dark head bent over the crocodile, which is displayed proudly on a side table. Regulus, my mother, and my uncle are standing near the foot of the stairs. I can't see anyone else from this angle.

I stampede down all three flights of stairs in my best impersonation of an elephant. My mother snorts with displeasure, but doesn't rebuke me.

"Well, happy Christmas, Sirius," my uncle says, looking down at me with a sort of grimace. His tone is anything but merry.

I give him my most innocent, angelic smile. It's not an expression I get much chance to practice.

Bellatrix turns away from her examination of the now-unwrapped crocodile's nasty shriveled-up head, facing me. Like both of her sisters, she's beautiful, but in a very different way. She and Andromeda look more similar, with dark hair and heavy-lidded eyes, as opposed to Narcissa's delicate features and blond hair. There's something in Bella's face that isn't in either of the others', though; her chin is stronger, her lips thinner, her expression more determined, and she's the tallest of the three. Altogether, it makes her look both more imperious and more frightening.

"Tell me, Sirius, how does the Gryffindor common room smell? It must reek with all the filth they let in there. Perhaps you're used to it by now, though…" she smiles ominously.

"Actually, I think the Slytherin one probably smells worse—all that mold and damp from the lake. Not to mention that you can probably still smell that nasty perfume you used to wear in there."

Bellatrix's eyes flash. Usually this is a warning sign, but it's not like she can do anything to me in front of my parents. I plow on recklessly.

"That really was some gross stuff—what exactly was it supposed to smell like, Essence of a Huge Rotten Tulip?"

"If I were you, Sirius, although fortunately I'm not, I'd keep my mouth shut and try not to embarrass myself any more. Surely disgracing the family is enough shame for you?"

She turns on her heel and marches regally into the drawing room, where Narcissa is introducing Lucius Malfoy to my father. Andromeda, who's standing near the window, flashes me a quick smile.

Malfoy is quite popular with the adults, as I expected. He's definitely suitable boyfriend-and-potential-husband material. Rich, pureblood, and Slytherin. Never mind that he's smarmy and ridiculously full of himself. Bellatrix doesn't seem to particularly like him either. She starts looking bored whenever he opens his mouth. She's probably thinking of all the better things she could be doing, such as ravaging the surrounding countryside.

Christmas dinner is supposed to be served at four. Kreacher, who's been cooking all morning, staggers around the first-floor dining room under an assortment of heavy silver platters. I seat myself as far as I can from Bellatrix, since she's been known to kick under the tabletop when angered, and she still looks mad. My father, at one head of the table, carves the turkey. Even though we alternate hosting, he always has that duty, since Cygnus can't carve meat without rendering it a chopped-up mess.

Throughout the meal, the adults drone on about Ministry policies and the horrors of having Mudbloods in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Andromeda looks uncomfortable. Bellatrix looks superior. Narcissa looks sappily at Lucius. Lucius keeps looking at me, since I've started crossing my eyes every time he does. He's confused by this, which is an effective form of amusement.

I don't understand how Regulus can sit through family dinners without fidgeting. I'm not even used to eating with my parents, let alone half a dozen relatives. Even before Hogwarts, my brother and I only ate supper with the adults on Sundays. Kreacher brings our meals to the drawing room and my parents' to the dining room normally. My parents prefer their sons seen but not heard, or better yet not seen at all.

The meal lasts several hours. By the end, I'm about ready to explode with repressed energy and have resorted to banging my feet against the table legs. As Kreacher brings the Christmas pudding out, Lucius leans over to Narcissa, glancing at me, and whispers something in her ear.

"What? No, he's perfectly healthy. Why?"

The next time he looks at me, I not only cross my eyes but also let my tongue hang out of my mouth. Narcissa notices me this time, and looks at me in disgust.

"Just ignore him, Lucius," she says.

It's amazing what you can get away at these dinners. None of the adults are even bothering to pay any attention to me. My mother and Bellatrix are in the midst of a passionate denunciation of poor Allan Rigby, the Muggle-born Deputy Head of Law Enforcement, and the others are all nodding in agreement. Andromeda is drawing flowers in the pudding sauce with her fork. I surreptitiously poke her in the hand. She looks up.

"What?" she mouths.

"Are you and Ted still dating?" I mouth back.

"Shhh." She gestures to Bellatrix, sitting right next to her. But then she nods at me, smiling.

Finally the meal is over, and we're all allowed to leave. I leap up from my chair and head for the door as quickly as I can, slowing down just slightly when my mother gives me a Look of Death from across the table.

My relatives are staying the night, because they've flown in and don't want to make the trip again at night. They can't Apparate because Narcissa is underage, and our house is off the Floo Network, because my parents don't want people coming in without direct permission. Every year, whoever's not hosting leaves after breakfast on Boxing Day morning. It's horribly cold making the flight between their house in the country and ours in London in December, but it's a family tradition. Having so many people in the house tomorrow is going to make my planned prank so much more epic.

I wake myself up early on Boxing Day morning, and drag James's fireworks out from where they're hidden under the bed. The cardboard tears open easily, and I unwrap all of the fireworks themselves. There are probably a dozen of them. I'm planning to levitate them at different levels down the stairwell and pour a pitcher of water on top of them to ignite the explosion. Wingardium Leviosa won't work for an extended levitation—you have to keep steady concentration for that spell. I know how to do a Hover Charm, though, although it's past first-year level.

Once all of the bangers are dispersed down the stairwell, between this floor and the one directly below, where my cousins and Lucius Malfoy are sleeping, I lean over the banister, holding the jug of water I filled in the kitchen last night. I want the fireworks to blow at once, so I'll have to get the exact right angle.

I take aim, steel myself—it'll be loud—and fling my arm, ejecting the water from its pitcher. The initial noise is a blast, with a secondary, slightly softer one as I jerk the last of the water over the ones that haven't gone off yet. Filibuster makes great fireworks—they explode in a fury of red, green, and gold, crackling and banging as they expand outward. One scorches the wallpaper. _Oops. _

Bellatrix is the first out of her room, brandishing her wand, casting curses in all directions. One of her spells leaves a deep, foot-long gash in the wall. _Remind me never to do anything to her when she's sleeping again. _

There's a shriek from inside Andromeda's bedroom, but when her door flies open, she leans against the frame and watches the explosions, her face uplifted.

The best reactions by far, however, are Narcissa and Malfoy's. They both come sprinting out of the bedroom only she's supposed to be sleeping in, yelling at the top of their lungs. Narcissa screeches to a halt at the banister, next to Bellatrix. Malfoy, however keeps running, trips over the top of the staircase, and falls downwards, headfirst.

I'm slumped on the floor, laughing my head off.

"Lucius!" Narcissa screams, rushing down the stairs.

"I'm all right," he groans, pushing himself up. Bellatrix smirks.

My parents, Cygnus, and Druella have left their rooms as well—even though they weren't at the epicenter of the blast, they couldn't help but have heard it. Regulus comes out onto the landing, messy-haired in plaid pajamas, rubbing his eyes. When he sees the fireworks, which are still smoldering and flickering their bright colors down the stairwell, he stands dead still. His gaze follows a particularly large banger that's soaring around the staircase, trickling green sparks. It zooms directly downward, through where Bellatrix's head was a second before; she shrieks and ducks.

Obviously, the whole family knows it was me. And I'm punished, of course. I'll be spending the rest of break locked up in my room, with Kreacher bringing in meals. Bellatrix threatened to curse my ears off, but thankfully no one listened to her. There's only a week left before I go back to Hogwarts—just a week of boredom and listening to Kreacher's rants three times a day about how I'm a disgraceful troublemaker and he spent two days cleaning scorch marks off the walls.

Remus's book is a lifesaver; the spells in it range from one that casts curving rainbows out of wand tips to one that enables the person it's cast upon to walk on the ceiling. Without it, I'd be bored to tears. Even so, towards the end of break I've been reduced to jumping up and down on my bed and singing Celestina Warbeck songs at the top of my lungs. If I'm trapped in here, I might as well subject my family to the horror of her sappy ballads. By the last day, I've carved my name into the bed frame seven times, accidentally started a small fire, and almost fallen out the window twice.

Finally, break's over, and my father's taking me to King's Cross three hours early, on his way to go off and be an "influential political donor," that is, to give the Ministry a lot of gold and try to bribe and bully his way into getting the laws he wants. As we walk, my trunk and Lacerta's cage slide along next to us. He's enchanted them so they'll move over the ground without wheels. If any Muggles see us, we'll have some explaining to do.

My father barely speaks to me on the walk there, glaring at me whenever I run ahead and then come back. I rush around so much, happy to be out of my room and going back to school, that I probably walk twice as far as he does. When we're about halfway there, he finally snaps at me to walk behind him quietly like I should. I make the rest of the trip trudging along in his wake, kicking at the pavement. I can't really sulk, though—I'm going back to Hogwarts!

* * *

Reviews are to me what happiness is to a Dementor and chocolate is to Remus Lupin. In short, feed me.

I know that Narcissa could travel using Side-Along Apparation, but for the purposes of the story, I decided to have that spell be invented sometime in the future, much like the Wolfsbane Potion.

This is going to be my last update for about two weeks, since I am going on a choir tour and will not have any internet access.


	6. A Quartet of Butterbeer Smugglers

Well, my choral tour of Chile and Argentina is over, and after a long day of being trapped in a flying tin can, not to mention two weeks of singing that have exhausted my voice and limited my usual soprano range, I've finally reached my lovely laptop (and family, friends, beloved canine, house, my own bed, etc. etc. etc.) South America was wonderful, though. And I happened to drive past Bellatrix Street (!) which was a bit disconcerting.

Enjoy this long-delayed post.

* * *

Chapter Six: A Quartet of Butterbeer Smugglers

When we reach King's Cross, my father doesn't even bother to take me through the platform barrier. He just gives me an awkward good-bye handshake, the gold signet ring he always wears, stamped with our family crest, glinting in the sun. He lifts the movement spell off my trunk and owl, and hurries off. I load my things onto a trolley, but when I try to get through the barrier onto Platform 9 ¾ it behaves just like an ordinary wall, bouncing my trolley directly off its side.

I try again. No luck.

"You're a bit too early, son. Doesn't open 'till nine."

I whirl around. The speaker is an old man, bald as an egg, but with more than enough beard to make up for it. He's sitting on one of the benches, a walking stick leaning against his leg. It's capped off with an odd bit of brass sculpture: two identical faces, blended together so that they form one double-sided head.

"I'm the gatekeeper," he says in response to my inquiring look. "It's my job to make sure all of you lot get on and off without attracting too much Muggle attention."

"Oh," I say. "Must be difficult."

"All of you with your owls…people in robes down to the floor…not easy, boy, not easy." He taps his thigh with his odd walking stick. "You'll want to run on now. You draw eyes standing here."

"What about you?"

"Nobody notices an old man on a bench." He smiles, a little ruefully.

I wander off towards the entrance of the station, and sit down against a heavily graffitied wall, settling Lacerta's cage next to my legs. It's freezing here, and I'm wishing I'd brought a coat instead of just wearing a jumper. To the left of me, someone's gone and written "Paige Keegan is a smelly whore. Keep your boyfriend away from her." Graffiti is very interesting sometimes. As I'm reading further about the sexual exploits of the odious Paige Keegan, I hear a rather timid voice.

"'Scuse me, is that an owl?" The speaker is a little girl, maybe eight or nine, Regulus's age, with short blond hair poking from underneath her hat, and a dark green coat. Probably a Muggle.

"Yeah, she is."

"Where'd you get an owl for a pet?" she asks.

"Exotic pet store." I say. _Not really a lie._

"I wish I had an owl—yours is so pretty. Can I pet her, please?"

"Sure. Lacerta's really friendly." I say.

The girl bends over, poking her fingers through the bars of Lacerta's cage. My owl rubs her head along the girl's fingers, hooting softly.

"Wow," the girl breathes. She looks up at me "She's lovely. What's your name?"

"Sirius. You?"

"Stevie. Sirius is a weird name."

"Tell me about it." I make a face. She giggles.

"So where does your train go?"

"I'm going back to school, after the holidays."

"I'd get so homesick if I was at boarding school. I'd cry _every _night. But I guess you're older, so it's okay.

"Yeah. It's okay."

"I'm going back home today—I live in India, actually. We were in London over Christmas, but we're taking a ship home from Liverpool. It'll be a really long trip."

"What's India like?" I ask curiously.

"Hot." Stevie laughs. "I had to get this coat specifically for the trip." She twirls around, showing her winter clothes off.

"I'd better go, my train leaves at eight thirty. Bye, Sirius. Bye, Lacerta, you beautiful bird."

"Bye, Stevie." I wave. Lacerta hoots, flapping her wings. "Hear that, girl? She thinks you're a beautiful bird. Don't get a big head, now that you've got admirers."

I decide to spend the next hour or so exploring the Muggle shops near King's Cross. I can leave my trunk in the baggage keep, but I have to take "any sort of living creature" with me, as the guard says pompously. I get lots of stares in a Muggle appliance shop, mostly because I'm carting a huge owl around and wearing dark blue robes under my sweater, but also because I try to look down a vacuum cleaner tube for about five minutes before I realize that's not what it's for.

At ten o'clock, I head back to the station, reclaim my trunk, and go through the barrier. The old gatekeeper is nowhere to be seen. I scout around for my friends.

"Sirius! Sirius, mate, over here!" It's James's voice, from over at the other end of the platform.

"James!" I yell, spinning around.

"How were the fireworks?"

"This was Bellatrix:" Letting out a series of high-pitched shrieks, I wave my wand around in the air, shooting out silver sparks.

James roars with laughter.

"And Lucius Malfoy fell down the stairs." I say with satisfaction.

"Abraxas Malfoy's son?" Mr. Potter has come over by this time. "He's not a relative of yours, is he?"

"No, my cousin Cissy's dating the stupid git, unfortunately."

"He _fell down the stairs_?" James whoops with delight.

"Headfirst."

Mr. Potter laughs along with us.

"Well, Sirius, my wife and I would be happy to have you stay with us for the Easter holidays. James has been badgering us all week."

I grin from ear to ear. "Thanks, Mr. Potter. I'd love to."

"I have not been badgering you! You said yes the first day!" James is playfully outraged.

"Let me amend that statement, Sirius." Mr. Potter smiles. "We'd be glad to have you, and I immediately caved to James in the first place."

"That's more like it." James says.

"Oh, you found him, did you?" Mrs. Potter appears, holding James's owl. "Did you have a good Christmas?" she asks me.

"Don't say anything about the fireworks," James hisses in my ear. "Only my dad and I know about those."

"It was fine, I guess." I tell Mrs. Potter. "I'm glad I'm going back to Hogwarts."

"James was looking forward to going back as well—I'm horribly offended, of course."

We all laugh. The Potters say goodbye to both of us—Mrs. Potter fusses a little over James's hair.

"It's a lost cause, Dorea," Mr. Potter says. "There hasn't been anyone in the family with neat hair in at least a century."

"See you both at Easter! James, sweetie, make sure you write home."

They stand back, letting us board the train, waving as we climb the stairs.

"I know they're a little too affectionate, but I guess it's 'cause I'm their only kid. Sorry if they hovered a bit, Sirius."

"I don't mind. They're a hell of a lot better than mine."

James and I duck into the first empty compartment we see.

"So tell me _exactly_ what happened with the fireworks," James says.

I laugh. "Well, I set them off at about five in the morning on Boxing Day…"

Eventually we spot Peter, and then Remus, and shout at them to come in from our windows. The two of them hurry into the compartment. I end up telling the fireworks story several times, once for every new arrival, with dramatic re-enactings of Malfoy falling flat on his face.

As Peter and James roll around in their seats laughing, I glance up at Remus from where I'm sprawled on the floor.

"Thanks for the book, by the way. I really needed that. I would have been so bored."

I don't elaborate. My friends don't need to know I was locked up in my room for a week. They can just think I got away with the prank.

When the food trolley comes along, we get a truly ridiculous amount of candy. Eventually, once we've eaten a bit of it, James starts trying to sculpt a Hogwarts-like castle out of Cauldron Cakes. This is made more difficult by the other three of us breaking off bits to snack on.

I love being back with my friends again, and I can't wait to get back to Hogwarts. I missed everything about it. Right now I feel like I wouldn't mind never going back to Grimmauld Place.

We all pile off the train at Hogsmeade, dragging our luggage over with the rest of the returning students not to the lakeshore, but down a path to a clearing where many carriages wait. They don't appear to be drawn by anything, but when I put my hand out, there's definitely something there. It feels a little bit like a horse's flank, but bonier and ridged along the hip bone. As I stand there, the coarse hairs of an invisible tail flick against my arm.

"Invisible horse, I guess." I say in response to James's inquiring look.

The four of us end up in a carriage with three of the Gryffindor girls—Fishwick, Musson, and Evans. It's amazing how much chattier I am on the ride back than on the ride to King's Cross at the start of break. I even manage to have a short conversation with Evans, which is quite an accomplishment, as usually she seems rather disgusted by me and James. Apparently she went to Spain with her parents and older sister. Even the Muggles have more fun than me on break.

"Want to make a Hogsmeade run first night back?" I whisper to James.

James grins. "Of course. Can't start off a term any other way, can we?"

So, instead of going back to the common room with everyone else after dinner, we sneak up to the fourth floor and use the mirror passage. Cloaked and sweatered against the freezing January air, we clamber out onto the meadow where we first met Ted and Andromeda. Frosted ground crunches underneath our feet as we head downhill to the village.

"I've got an idea," Peter says suddenly. He looks a little nervous speaking up; usually he's not the one who comes up with plans.

"What?" the rest of us ask in unison.

"Have you ever been ice-skating?"

James has, and Remus did once as a little kid, but I haven't at all.

"Well, there's that little pond over around the Shrieking Shack. It's probably frozen over. We could go…not skating, maybe sliding, I guess, on it."

The general consensus is that it's a great idea. The lake isn't completely frozen over yet, but the pond, which is quite small, probably will be.

We decide to go to the Hog's Head pub to get some bottled Butterbeer. Mr. and Mrs. Peakes at the Three Broomsticks might get a bit suspicious if four obviously Hogwarts-age kids come into the pub alone at night. The Hog's Head is rumored to be really sketchy, so naturally James and I are excited to go in.

It's about as seedy-looking as I expected, a run-down cobblestone building, the top two stories of which jut out slightly into the street. A battered wooden sign, painted with the severed head of a big, tough-looking boar, swings back and forth over the door. The inside of the pub is quite filthy—the stone floor is caked with dirt, the windows so smeared I can't see anything out of them. All of us hang back for a moment at the door, but then enter, Peter trailing nervously behind.

Several trestle tables are scattered around the room, which is dark, lit only by stumpy beeswax candles, and rather cramped. The table nearest the windows holds a group of wizards in long black cloaks, who are huddled together, Gobstones strewn over the tabletop. It looks like some sort of gambling's going on. A witch with tangled hair and a floppy blue hat is drinking deeply from a smoking mug of Firewhisky, alone at the next table over, and a balding man and someone of indeterminate gender in a hood are eating at one of the tables across the room. The pub owner, who's tall and thin with a long, braided beard, stares at us suspiciously from behind the splintery bar.

James and I glance at each other. Who's going to do the talking?

I clear my throat. "Four bottles of Butterbeer, please."

The barman silently scoops four dusty bottles, caps dented, out from a crate on the floor.

"5 Sickles and a Knut."

I rummage in my pockets. "Anybody got a Knut?" James passes one of the little bronze coins over.

The barman raises his eyebrows at us as we take the bottles. Probably thinking about how we should be in school.

Ice-skating is apparently done with blades on the bottoms of special shoes, but the ice on the pond is slippery enough that we can slide around on it, just walking with our normal shoes. According to Peter, the blades give much more traction and therefore control, so we wouldn't fall quite so much, but slipping around the ice is still fun. James spells the butterbeer to keep it warm, and even though we leave the bottles on the bank, it's definitely a good thing to have around, particularly when I fall flat on my face on the cold, smooth ice.

Eventually, I slump onto the frosted bank, reach for one of the bottles, and unscrew the cap, fingers shaking slightly. I wish I'd brought gloves, but I didn't think. James slides over and deposits himself next to me, grabbing some butterbeer himself. It's a delicious drink, sweet and foamy, and I'm feeling warmer already.

"Nice gloves," I remark, noting James's hands, at least, are covered. The gloves are made of good-quality leather, with fur trim. They're probably all warm and fuzzy inside.

"Thanks. They're a Christmas present."

The subject of Christmas presents reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask.

"James?"

"Yeah?"

"What'd your dad get your mum for Christmas?"

"These pearl earrings, sort of dangly—they were really pretty, she wore them to my aunt Elizabeth's New Year's party. And a pair of gloves like mine, he got them in Italy on a business trip. Why?"

"Just wondering what people usually give their wives."

"Did your dad get another shrunken head or something?"

"Worse." I take a gulp of Butterbeer and grin at the questioning expression on James's face. "A crocodile."

"Alive?"

"Nope."

"A _dead_ crocodile?" James is incredulous, his eyes round.

"Mummified. From Ancient Egypt. Apparently they're really Dark and valuable."

"Well, rather that than earrings."

"You're not a girl, though." I say, after we've finished laughing.

"Thanks, Sirius, I wasn't aware of that." This sets us off again.

I lean back on my elbows and watch Peter, holding Remus's wrists, show him how to slide backwards.

It's well after midnight by the time we clamber, yawning, into the room behind the mirror.

"We'll need to keep a lookout for Filtch, I don't fancy being chased all over the school like that first night," I say.

"Wish we had my dad's Invisibility Cloak." James says wistfully.

"Your dad's got an Invisibility Cloak?" all three of us ask.

"Yeah. I can't bring it to school 'till I'm thirteen, though. Mum's orders. It isn't fair."

We all make it back to our dormitory safely, but the next morning comes much too soon. After our start-of-term adventure, of course, we're all exhausted, prompting McGonagall to give James a detention for snoring loudly in the middle of her lecture on Switching Spells. Peter and I get detentions as well, since the snores emitting from James drew her attention to the fact that we were also sleeping. Remus alone manages to stay awake, but in double History of Magic next period, a class clearly invented by some god of boredom, even he can't keep his eyes open.

After a good two hours of "history class"/naptime, we're all feeling much better, and once we're full of steak-and-kidney pie from lunch, I have more than enough energy to cast a quick Leg Locker hex on Snape as we head out to Herbology.

"Did you see the look on his face?" James whoops.

I make an approximation of Snape's expression, bugging my eyes out and dropping my jaw. Peter and James snicker.

"D'you think he'll be able to get it off, though?" Remus looks a bit worried.

"Yeah, it'll be fine. He'll just sort of hobble up to the hospital wing and get Madam Collins to do the countercharm." James grins. "Although it may take him quite a while to get up three flights of stairs with his legs stuck together."

"Come on, hurry up, everybody, I'm freezing standing around here." I say, trudging ahead towards the greenhouses.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Stevie Zimmermann, my godmother and a generally amazing person. I've inserted her childhood self into it as a little tribute.


	7. Two Potionmakers, a Pineapple

Disclaimer: PLOT TWIST! I am J.K. Rowling...No, I'm not.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Two Potionmakers, a Pineapple Upside-Down Cake, and a Crafty Plot.

Snape definitely knows it was one of us who put the Leg Locker on him, because he glares venomously at me and James when we walk into Potions next period. He doesn't do anything, or make any obnoxious comments. He just huddles over the cauldron he shares with Evans. Slughorn started making us pair up for practical lessons in our second week here, after a rather unfortunate incident involving a Slytherin boy's Pepperup Potion, much too pepped up, exploding. In pairs, so the theory goes, we'll be less likely to make mistakes; the old "two heads are better than one" idea. Usually James and I work together, and so he's stirring the simple herbicide we're working on, while I chop up Chinese eggplant and measure out flobberworm mucus.

When Slughorn announces the end of class, Snape's hand shoots up. "Excuse me, sir, could you tell me when our next practical is?"

"This Thursday. We'll be doing Fireproofing Potions, on page seventy-seven, if you want to look ahead."

"Oh, I will."

Severus Snape has got to be the only student in the school who voluntarily does extra Potions homework. Slughorn beams down at him. Our Potions teacher plays favorites quite obviously. James rolls his eyes at me behind Slughorn's massive back. I stick my finger in my mouth and pretend to gag.

We're supposed to serve our detentions Wednesday night. The three of us are supposed to report to the Great Hall, where our Head of House will give us our assignments. We know the drill, since we've done several detentions apiece since the start of school. McGonagall's waiting near our House table when we come in. Peter and James will be helping Hagrid care for injured Bowtruckles. I'll be helping Professor Slughorn. I'd rather go with Hagrid, particularly if James is as well.

"Come on, Professor, can't I swap with Peter?" I ask. McGonagall's strict, but couldn't hurt to see if she'll let me.

She shakes her head, looking down at me severely. "No, you may not. Professor Slughorn specifically requested the two of you, actually, but seeing how much trouble you and Potter manage to get up to in class, I thought it would be best to separate you for detention."

"Why d'you think Slughorn wanted us?" James asks curiously as we walk out into the Entrance Hall.

"Probably wants to see if we'll join the Slug Club or whatever." I say disparagingly. Evans has been to a few meetings of Slughorn's little fan club. Although James and I don't do as well in his class as she does, I've noticed Slughorn pays more attention to students from old families with money, like us, than people like Remus and Peter. Plus, the two of us get very good marks in general, and he'll definitely know this.

"Wish I could go to Hagrid's with you all." I don't like Slughorn much. His way of ingratiating himself with promising students puts me off, and I don't want him to appreciate me just for my parentage, either. I get enough of that already.

"Slughorn'll have food, though." James says.

"You think?"

"Trust me; you don't get to be that size without food around."

I laugh, veering off from the two of them, towards the dungeons. "You have a point."

"Don't I always?" They go out the front door, and I sigh and set off alone for detention with Slughorn.

"Professor?" I poke my head into the Potions classroom. It's empty except for a tall stack of what looks like rolled-up essay parchments on his desk, and a hulking cauldron issuing copious amounts of vapor. I peer into the cauldron. Shimmery purplish liquid swirls around inside.

"It's alright, that's supposed to stew overnight. It won't harm anything." Slughorn emerges from the door to his office, rather quietly for such a large man.

"Come on in, then. Would you like some cake?" I grin. James was definitely right.

There's a teapot and a pound cake already sitting on a trestle table. An overstuffed armchair faces the table. The cake is a buttery-looking sort of thing, with a pattern of candied fruit on top. Sugary pineapple slices create flower-like shapes around glazed cherries. Slughorn cuts two slices, one substantially larger than the other, and plates them. Sure enough, he puts the smaller slice on my side of the table. The teapot rises into midair and pours tea into two china cups.

"Why don't you sit down?" Slughorn smiles pleasantly, waving his wand. A straight-backed wooden chair zooms over from across the room, depositing itself across from the armchair, in which Slughorn now settles himself, letting out a short sigh as he does so.

"So what am I doing for detention?"

"Officially, you're helping me sort ingredients. I thought we'd have time for a chat and a little snack before we got started, though." He stirs cream and sugar into his tea. I squeeze a slice of lemon into mine.

"Well, I won't pretend it wasn't a surprise when you were Sorted, my boy." I stab moodily at my pound cake. I knew we'd end up on this topic.

"Thought you'd end up in my House for sure, didn't I? I taught both your parents, you know. Very strong students, too. I was quite looking forward to having another Black. You must be the first of your family to end up anywhere else in ages."

"I kind of got the sense of that from my mother's Howler." I say.

"Oh yes, that. Regrettable business. Not a great start to your first day."

_No, really?_

"Anyhow, Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Striker all tell me you're doing very well in their classes. Do you have a favorite class?"

We discuss lessons for a little while, but when Potions gets brought up, Slughorn mentions my cousin Andromeda, who apparently is in his N.E.W.T. course.

"You've taught all my cousins, right?" I ask politely.

"Yes, indeed. Narcissa isn't taking Potions any more, but she did quite well in my class. Quieter than either of her sisters, though. Andromeda is very personable. Lovely girl." He smiles at the thought of my middle cousin, but then frowns. "Bellatrix was a more difficult student. Very strong-willed. Bright, though." I get the sense he doesn't particularly like Bella, which raises him slightly in my esteem.

"Oh my, look at the time. We'd better get started sorting those ingredients, eh? Wouldn't want to keep you further than your detention's supposed to go."

An hour of trying to tell virtually identical leaves from each other later, I'm walking up towards Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady leans against her frame, snoring loudly.

"Flibbertigibbet." I say loudly. She wheezes slightly in her sleep.

"FLIBBERTIGIBBET!"

"You needn't shout," She complains, looking at me fuzzily.

"Open up when I say it the first time, then." She swings upward, glaring at me.

The common room's still quite crowded. It's only eight thirty, and some upperclassmen don't finish their homework till midnight. James and Remus are sitting by the fireplace. Remus has "Beginning Transfiguration" balanced on his lap. James is playing Solitaire with Exploding Snap cards.

"Where's Peter?" I ask.

"He got bitten by one of the Bowtruckles." James rolls his eyes. "On the _elbow_, if you'd believe it. I took him up to the hospital wing."

I perch on the arm of Remus's chair. "'Transfiguration of Objects with Moving Parts?' We haven't got there yet, have we? We're still on one-piece objects."

"Well, I thought if you and James could work ahead, I could too. And you wouldn't know what we were doing in class, anyway, now would you? Not like you pay attention." He whacks me on the arm with his quill. I whack back.

"I pay enough attention to know what to do when she goes around checking, don't I?" I wedge my feet in between Remus and the back of the chair and flip over the armrest, dangling upside down.

"True."

At that point, there's a loud bang and a burst of swearing as a whole row of James's cards ignites, singeing his eyebrows.

"You people are so accident-prone." Remus sighs dramatically.

I swing back upright indignantly. "Hey, who exactly got all scratched up by the neighbor's cat? Not once, but twice?"

Remus blushes slightly. He doesn't look entirely healthy, now that I look at him more closely. His skin under the flush has a grayish cast to it, and there are bags under his eyes.

"You alright?" I ask.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He doesn't look me in the eyes, though.

"Hey, did you guys hear about the Slytherin common room?" James asks.

"No, what happened?"

"Well, Frank said one of the seventh years said somebody told him it's been smelling really bad all of a sudden. D'you think somebody pranked it? "

"Wish it was us." I say. I'm pretty sure I know who that Gryffindor seventh year who knows all about what's going on in the Slytherin common room is.

Peter comes back through the portrait hole just before nine, his bitten elbow magically healed by Madam Collins.

"Now returns the fallen hero." James intones in his best announcer voice. "Struck down in the line of duty, bravely squaring off against an army of little men shaped like sticks. A feat of such renown can only be passed down, generation to generation, as a true legend." His voice takes on its everyday tone. "No, seriously, though, thanks for rescuing me from detention."

"Thanks." Peter smiles, flopping down on the floor at the very edge of the fire.

"Hagrid let you out early? Slughorn kept me late because he wanted to have a 'chat.'"

"What about?"

"Him being disappointed I'm not in his House, the 'Slug Club', things like that."

"Did he invite you to join the Slug Army?" James asks in his most innocent tone. I can tell a joke is coming up. "To follow his every slimy command? After all, he _is _the Slug Chieftain."

We all snort with laughter.

The next time I see the Slug Chieftain himself, he's beckoning us into our Thursday practical lesson. The instructions for Fireproofing Potions are more complex than our usual lessons, so James studies the textbook with extra care as he measures out ingredients. Apparently if the potion goes wrong, instead of being fireproof, it actually catches on fire. About halfway through the period, there's a loud yelp from the Slytherin side of the dungeon. Rosier's group has accidentally managed to set their potion ablaze. As we all watch sparks fly out of the cauldron, I hear a series of splashing noises from ours.

After that, no one pays attention to the sparks on the other side of the room, because actual lightning is coming out of our cauldron. Zigzag silver bolts are jerking out of the top, and worst of all, there's a strong smell coming along with them, of what can only be described as feet. Sweaty feet.

The atmosphere in the room immediately descends into pandemonium. The lightning coming out of our cauldron scorches the ceiling, as well as James's and my robes. This, combined with the unbelievably strong smell, causes us to back up as quickly as possible. Slughorn comes sprinting over, choking on the fumes, and dodging lightning bolts. He Vanishes the potion, leaving us standing, shell-shocked, by our still-fizzling cauldron.

Whatever happened to our potion, it was dramatic. I don't think we did anything wrong, though. I can't remember putting anything in that shouldn't have been there. I think of the splashing sound we heard right before it went off. Maybe we knocked something in by accident?

I follow James's eyes over across the room. He's looking at Lily Evans, who's got her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. I must admit, if you hadn't been on the receiving end of the lightning, it probably looked pretty funny. She's not just laughing, though. She's also got a sort of knowing look to her. But she can't have done anything to our potion. Why would she?

But then, she glances at Snape, sitting next to her. He looks really pleased with himself. Suddenly I understand what must have happened. He's great at Potions. He knew what the assignment was beforehand. He probably experimented in the Slytherin dorm or something to get the added ingredient right—that's why the common room's been smelling bad. I guess he levitated whatever it was into our cauldron. From the expression on James's face, he's just come to the same conclusion I have.

Part of me acknowledges that this was a spectacular prank. The rest of me just wants to rip all of Snape's oily hair out.

"Well, we're just going to have to get him back, then." James says, interrupting my furious denunciation of Snape as we leave the classroom.

"—completely unbelievable, greasy little Slytherin snake—wait, what? Let's just curse him as soon as he gets out of class. Or punch him in the face, I'm not too picky."

"Oh, no, definitely not. It'll have to be something brilliant. We'll need to plan our retaliatory attack."

"We could always Stun him and then tie him to a metal rod at the top of the Astronomy Tower. See how he deals with his precious lightning then."

"No offense, Sirius, but that's a really bad idea."

"I realized that, you know."

"Like hell you did."

* * *

A/N: It was a bit odd writing Slughorn from Sirius's point of view, because I personally adore him, but feel that Sirius wouldn't like him at all.

Next chapter is mostly friendship-oriented, sweet but not straight-up fluff. Remus gets "mysteriously" injured and the others visit him in the hospital wing. I got hit with lots of Marauder emotions whilst writing it. You have been warned.


	8. Moonlight, Snowy Days, and Friends

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, I am not. Yoda, I am not either.

A/N: I cried writing this chapter. Multiple times. It gave me lots of Remus and Marauder-friendship feels.

* * *

Chapter Eight: Moonlight, Snowy Days, and Friends

Planning our revenge on Snape is going to have to wait, though. As we head into the entrance hall on the way to dinner, Remus blurts that he feels really sick and wants to go to the hospital wing. He's been looking run-down, or rather more run-down than usual, for a couple days now, so this isn't really surprising.

"Want us to come with you?" James asks.

"Thanks, but you guys should eat."

"What about you, aren't you hungry?" Peter looks worried, as if not being hungry is a sign of eminent death.

"No, not much. I feel really ill, actually."

He hurries off towards the staircase.

"Poor Remus." I say. "Either he's sick or his mum's sick, all the time."

"Tell you what, should we make a Hogsmeade run after dinner? Pick him up some Butterbeer, and get some chocolates for good measure. We can bring them up to the hospital wing later."

Peter and I agree, and after dinner we run up to the Tower to fetch cloaks, as well as gloves for all of us this time. There's a light dusting of snow on the hillside where the mirror passage lets out, and the air has that sort of wintry, crisp quality that makes it almost hurt your lungs, but at the same time fills you with energy.

"Back again, are we?" The Hog's Head bartender asks irritably, when we walk into his pub.

"Yes, we are." James responds boldly. "You got some butterbeer?"

He swings three bottles up onto the bar, staring at us balefully.

"And another one, please. For our friend."

He adds a fourth to them. "Same price as last time, and I hope you're careful about whatever secret passageway you're using to get in here." He scowls at us, but the corners of his mouth quirk upwards. Apparently the grumpy old bugger has a heart after all.

James disperses the butterbeer bottles among the three of us, tucking Remus's under his cloak.

"This stuff is so good," I say, taking a dreamy swig out of mine.

"On to Honeydukes, troops!" Peter says, thrusting his arm out like a general leading a charge.

"Forward march!" I yell, as James gets his references mixed up and says "Aye, aye, cap'n!"

We end up buying Remus a bar of the plain milk chocolate, since that's his favorite, and some fudge with peanuts in it, because the shopkeeper lets us sample it and it's delicious. Like me, Remus loves chocolate most out of any other type of sweet, and the other two wouldn't turn their noses up at anything with sugar in it. My personal favorite Honeydukes chocolate is the one with toffee in it, like Andromeda gave me for Christmas, so we get a bar of that as well, and some Peppermint Toads, on Peter's suggestion, because they're enchanted to hop around, and humor is always good when a person's sick.

On the grounds that humor's always good in general, we decide to head over to Zonko's and see if we can pick up some Dungbombs. We're walking towards the joke shop, as the full yellowish globe of the moon, just barely risen, shines at the edge of the horizon. A shriek splits the night. And it's coming from the Shack.

Peter squeals and drops the fudge. I stoop to pick it up, and then straighten to stare in the direction of the abandoned house. The noises carried towards us on the wind are definitely not human. There's a weird sort of howl, or perhaps a wail, followed by a long, low moan. As whatever is making the noise starts to keen, a drawn-out, high-pitched sound, I feel goosebumps develop on my arms. Though the rumors we've heard are of vicious shrieking, I hear a tone of extreme pain in the sounds as well. It's otherworldly, and at the same time I want to go towards the Shack, to investigate, and to run as far away as I can. These two desires compromise, leaving me stock-still on the road. James and Peter are frozen as well, immobile, looking up at the old house.

After what must be five minutes of these agonized, angry noises, the sound subsides into a sort of faint whimper. Hogsmeade residents have come out of their shops and houses, and are standing in the road as well. The plump Honeydukes shopkeeper crosses himself and goes back inside.

"Should we—"

"Zonko's—"

"Hogwarts—"

As the three of us cut each other off, we all fall silent again. I can tell James, like me, is both disturbed and intrigued. Peter just looks terrified.

"Let's go back. It's getting late. Remus might be asleep already." James says. He's seen how scared Peter looks, and the mingled expressions on my face. Logical thought is his way of letting us leave without making it a coward's retreat.

As we open the door in the hillside, the howling starts up again, more pained than ever.

"I'm sorry, boys," Madam Collins's comfortable nurse's bulk blocks the door to the hospital wing. "He's asleep already, and he's very ill, so you won't be able to see him."

"Is Remus going to be okay?" I ask.

"He'll be fine, dear. He might have to stay in the hospital wing for another day or two. But he'll be alright."

"Can you tell him we were here when he wakes up?" Peter asks fretfully.

"Of course, dear. You can visit him at lunchtime tomorrow."

James and I exchange nervous looks. Even though Remus is often ill, he's never had to stay in the hospital for more than a day before.

"Are you sure he's alright?" The question comes from all three of us.

"I'm sure. Now get to your dormitory. You'll be out of bounds in exactly ten minutes."

The next morning, we go down to the hospital wing before breakfast anyway, but Madam Collins tells us Remus isn't awake yet.

"What d'you think is wrong with him?" James's voice carries a bit of the morbid curiosity that people sometimes get around sickness.

"I dunno." I glance thoughtfully down at the students going in to breakfast. "Hope he'll get out soon, so we can get back at Snivellus." It's easier to talk about things like that than think about the realities of Remus being ill.

"We could probably do it without him, he's sort of crap at pranking anyway."

"Yeah, but it's funny when he gets all freaked out and rule-abiding and Remus-ish." Peter grins.

"So the consensus is we wait for Remus, then." James stares down the staircase towards the Great Hall doors, where Lily Evans and Snivellus himself are whispering to each other. "He needs to leave the Gryffindor girls alone."

"How he gets away with it is a mystery." I say. "Talking to a Gryffindor, and a Muggle-born at that. You'd think all the Slytherins would be after his blood."

"I don't think he has many friends. The others aren't talking to him quite as much as they were earlier." Peter apparently notices more than I do.

"Ha, even the Slytherins don't want to hang round with Snivelly." James says.

"I'm glad I'm not in Slytherin." I say suddenly.

"Yeah, well, we're glad too, mate. You and Snivellus would kill each other." James pauses. "Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing…"

"…or that you won't kill each other anyway." Peter smiles.

"Ah, come on, let's hex him now. Remus won't care. The big revenge plot can come later." I decide.

"Good man."

Large purple boils make Severus Snape even less attractive than he usually is.

"Can we come in now?" James asks, after we've gathered outside the hospital wing again come lunch break.

"Can I stop you?" Madam Collins sighs in the way only constantly pestered school nurses can.

"Hey, Remus!" We chorus, bursting into the room.

"Hey," Remus responds weakly. He's sitting up in bed, although he's white as the neatly pressed hospital sheets and there's a large bandage wrapped around his head. He doesn't look like he's six inches from death, which is what's been niggling irrationally at the back of my mind all morning. He doesn't exactly look healthy either, though.

"We brought you some chocolate," I say, displaying the Honeydukes packages, wrapped in bright patterned foil.

"And look!" Peter holds out his hands, cupped around a single indignantly ribbitting Peppermint Toad. "That was my idea."

"Contraband butterbeer, courtesy of your favorite smugglers," James says, whipping the bottle out dramatically and setting it on the nightstand.

Remus's whole face lights up.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "That's really nice of you all." He takes the chocolates from me. His hands are bandaged as well.

"How'd you manage to cut yourself up in here?" I ask curiously.

"Er…I'm not cut up…I, um, get really bad allergies and, you know, hives, and then they bleed, so she puts bandages on them so they don't get infected." He looks embarrassed. I've never heard of anyone with allergies that bad. "Um, so did you guys bring me the homework as well?"

We all stare at him in shock.

"I don't believe you, Remus," James says. "You get out of class with massive bleeding hives and you want to do _homework_?"

"I don't want to have to catch up!" Remus says earnestly, if thickly, around a mouthful of milk chocolate. He looks cheerier than he did when we came in, although whether it's our presence or the sweets I don't know.

"Come on, they'll give you a pass if you've been in hospital. Wish I could get away with it." Peter says.

"I'm probably going to be in here until Monday, or Sunday afternoon at the earliest. I need to get some work done. Plus, I'm bored. I don't have anything to do, and I've already written to my parents so they know I'm alright. Could you guys bring me some books?"

"Okay, fine. Which do you want?" I ask.

"Er, let's see, can I get _1000 Herbs_ so I can finish up Professor Sprout's marigold essay, and _Hogwarts, A History_, I was just reading about wards on the castle, it's fascinating, and that book on the Mormack Uprising —"

"Is that the one with the really scary-looking goblin on the front cover?"

"Yeah, that one. And also that book we're reading in Charms, please, and the one about dragons."

"You all need to clear out," Madam Collins announces, bustling over with a vial of steaming potion. "Remus has to take a Blood-Replenishing Draught, and lunch is almost over, so you ought to go eat."

"You need to get blood replenished?" I ask. Those are some majorly nasty hives.

"Yeah. This is the last dose, though, right?"

"Yes. After this you'll just need to rest up, and when you can walk properly, you'll be back in class."

"Hives on my leg too." Remus says quickly, in response to our inquiring glances. "You should go eat. Um, if you want to come up sometime over the weekend, you can give me all the homework then."

"Of course we'll visit you!" James says.

"Don't eat all the chocolate before we get back," I tease as we head off to lunch.

I sprint up to Gryffindor Tower to fetch and deliver Remus's books between Transfiguration and History of Magic that afternoon, since I'm the tallest, have the longest legs, and thus run the fastest. I'm quite late to History of Magic anyway, not that Binns notices, because I stopped to rifle through James's and my trunks, looking for my Gobstones set and his Exploding Snap cards. I don't think even Remus could occupy himself for hours on end with just books. Even though you can't really play Gobstones alone, he might be able to convince Madam Collins to play with him.

When we come up to the hospital after dinner, Remus puts aside _Living Amongst the Dragons of Wales_, and beaming, gestures to the Peppermint Toads and fudge, which are on a little table at the foot of Remus's bed.

"See, I didn't eat it all." The Gobstones set is out on the table as well. From the subtle smell of diluted Stinksap, I can tell it's been used recently.

"So you got Collins to play with you, huh?"

"No, actually. Lily came up to visit me before dinner, and I was showing her how to play. 'Cause she's Muggle-born, she's never learned, you know."

"She did? That was nice of her." James says thoughtfully.

"Yeah, wasn't it? She's very sweet, actually."

"When she's not yelling at us," I say ruefully.

It starts to snow that night, and there's at least two feet by Saturday morning. When we troop into the hospital wing, Remus is in a chair, not in bed, although he's still all wrapped up in blankets. His face is pressed against the icy window, looking out, his breath fogging the glass.

"It's a nice day to be outside," he says gloomily. "You'd probably rather be having a snowball fight or something, not cooped up in here with me."

"Actually, we had an idea about that." James says. "Madam Collins, could we take Remus outside? No snowballs, I promise."

"I don't think so. Remus should be in bed. It's too cold out there, and he still can't walk properly."

"We could put him in a little sleigh—"

"Lots of blankets and a Warming Charm—"

"We'll take care of him—"

"Oh, please, Madam Collins, can I?"

All of us talk over each other, than fall silent, staring up at Madam Collins with what could only be described as puppy-dog eyes. Remus does them best, since it kind of helps to be skinny and sickly-looking and bandaged round the head.

Madam Collins purses her lips. "Oh, all right. Fine. Remus, I'm counting on you to take care of yourself."

Remus, all bundled up and wearing a stocking cap, is ensconced on a sled that Collins enchants with the same sort of slowly-moving-along charm my father used to take my trunk to King's Cross. It's quite a process getting him down the stairs and out the front door from the hospital wing, but eventually we gain the frigid outdoors.

The Forbidden Forest is crested with snow, and beside it the gamekeeper's hut carries a little white cap. Hagrid himself, in his ever-present moleskin overcoat, is stumping around nearby, looming huge and dark against a white backdrop. Half of Hogwarts seems to be on the grounds. Snowballs whiz everywhere we look. Evans and Macdonald are making a snowman. Several students are out on the frozen lake.

We end up making an igloo, packing the walls tight around an empty middle section. Remus helps from his sled mostly, but does stretch his legs at some points. He's limping, and a bit shaky-legged, but he can walk. Though he's fragile-looking, he's tough.

The igloo is just big enough to fit all four of us if we leave the sled outdoors and Peter sits on my legs. For the record, Peter sitting on my legs is not very comfortable. It's actually quite warm inside, because the walls block the wind.

"This is really nice, you know," Peter says, bouncing excitedly.

"Owwwww."

"Sorry, Sirius."

"Mmmpphh."

We do have a bit of a modified snowball fight. Peter, James, and I are fair game. Remus gets to throw, but we're not allowed to hit him. Eventually, the modified snowball fight turns into enchanting them to go over and hit Snape where he's reading a book under a tree, with a Slytherin scarf wrapped around his head and his hooked nose protruding.

About the time Snape realizes where the snowballs are coming from, sends an extremely rude hand gesture in our direction, and starts throwing handfuls of snow at us, we realize that, despite the Warming Charm, Remus is shivering, and immediately head back up to the castle. James dodges whatever jinx Snape's sent our way.

"Missed me!" he yells.

"Sod off, Potter," Snape responds, hands cupped around his mouth.

"Oooh, that's not very nice," James calls. "No, really," he adds to me with a wicked grin, "what did we _ever _do to him?"

Peter and I laugh. Remus sneezes.

"So, overall, Operation Liberate-Remus-from-Hospital was a success, eh?" I ask.

"Yeah. I'm glad to get out. My legs were getting really stiff, and I've got all afternoon to do my homework now, which is really exciting."

James and I stare at each other in disbelief.

"I'm joking, you two."

"Well, with you we never really know."

"Really, though, thanks for getting me out. That was good of you."

"What sort of friends would we be if we left you in there with no one but Collins for company?" James's face is incredulous.

Remus smiles up at us from the sled, than quickly glances back down at his gloved hands, clenching in his lap. "I'm glad you're friends with me," he says quietly.

"Oh yeah, we need somebody to tell us we're madmen sometimes," I say, giving him a teasing flick to the stocking cap.

* * *

A/N: Oh, stocking caps made me really happy. And Remus is beginning to run out of excuses for his monthly injuries. Please take the time to review. I like my feedback!


	9. Praying Mantises and War Cries

A/N: This is a very short chapter and nothing particularly exciting happens, but it's not entirely filler. To make up for that, next update you will get the Marauders' revenge on a certain Slytherin potioneer. The chapter will be entitled "Exploding Snap(e)." Prepare yourselves.

Please review me. If you don't, I will know and I will send Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, my least favorite main literary character of all time, to bore and annoy you. (Seriously, though, she's a sickly-sweet version of Anne of Green Gables. They don't get worse than that.)

* * *

Chapter Nine: Praying Mantises and War Cries

Remus is allowed to leave the hospital wing before dinner on Sunday. He's still got a bit of a limp, but all of his bandages have been taken off, and he's ecstatic to be back to normal. And anyway, he's bored with being in hospital. He's already read all his books, and done all his homework, and even though the rest of us spent almost all of Sunday morning in there entertaining him and generally irritating Madam Collins, he's more than happy to go back to our dormitory and regular classes.

I'm surprised when my parents' owl drops a letter in front of my plate at breakfast on Monday morning. I open the envelope gingerly, read the first few lines, and burst out laughing.

"What?" James asks around a mouthful of buttered toast.

"My cousin is engaged!"

"Really? To who?"

"Yeah. Bella and what's-his-face, er, Rodolphus are getting married this summer, apparently. I didn't even know she had a boyfriend." I scan the rest of the letter. "Poor bugger," I add as an afterthought.

"Is she the one who's a total nightmare?" Peter asks.

"Yep. Bellatrix 'Total Nightmare' Black." I grin. "She's going to rip his head off after they do it, like a praying mantis—"

Three pairs of eyes, one brown, one blue, and one hazel, question my sanity.

"That's a fact—female praying mantises tear the male's head off as soon as they've finished, you know, mating. Oh, never mind."

"I'll never understand what goes on in your brain," James says fondly, reaching for the platter of bacon. "Sirius, you ought to write them back and make sure you can come over for Easter break."

I wince. "Oh. Right."

I'm not entirely sure my parents will be jumping with joy over this, because even though James is pureblood, I don't think the Potters are what my mother would call a Family with Full Wizarding Pride. In fact, I'm almost positive that James's father, who works as a Diplomatic Legalwizard in the International Office of Magical Law, is the "meddling blood traitor" Potter that my parents have complained about.

"I can't wait for next weekend." James says happily, munching on his bacon.

"Why?"

"The Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match, obviously! Remus, if you'd been sick one week later, it would have been awful."

I'd forgotten all about the match.

"Wow, this one'll be great. Massive rivalries improve everything, huh?" Remus's voice is slightly sarcastic.

"Yeah, apparently the Gryffindor-Slytherin match is always really fast-paced and vicious. Lots of fouls." James says gleefully.

In our first period class, Defense against the Dark Arts, Professor Striker announces, much to my delight, that we're going to be working on minor dueling. The desks are nowhere to be seen, and the room is completely bare, a good space for fighting in.

"Right then, there are a few minor spells you need to know before I pair you up," she says brightly, as we all mass at the front of the classroom.

Once we've all learned how to perform a simple Disarming charm— "basic self-defense spell, absolutely necessary"—, practiced them, and been instructed to only use minor jinxes on our opponents, Striker calls for order.

"I'm going to count you all off into pairs, and don't you dare even trying to shuffle round so you can be with your friends. Immobilis!"

I freeze in my place, trying to get as far away from James as possible. Smiling slyly at her presence of mind, Striker moves around the room, counting off, and then releases us from the spell. I'm paired off with Kathryn Fishwick, and James is with Evans. Remus is put with Vanderlinden, one of the girls from Slytherin, and poor Peter is with Snape.

"Face your partners!"

Kathryn tosses her curly blond hair over her shoulder, her expression concentrated. I give her my most evil smile, or what James calls the Feral Sirius Look. She rolls her eyes.

"Bow to your partners!"

We bow.

"On three! One, two, three!"

The room seems to explode. Jets of light shoot everywhere, ricocheting off windows. The smoke clears as Professor Striker calls out to stop. Remus, with his typical penchant for following rules, has neatly Disarmed Vanderlinden. Snape has put Peter in a full Body-Bind, and Peter has somehow caused Snape's hair to smoke and give off a smell similar to burning cooking oil. James and Lily have somehow given each other antlers. Kathryn hasn't fired anything off, instead focusing on dodging my Tickling jinx, so we're both untouched. Across the room, both Gloria Telfair and the Slytherin boy she's been paired up with are lying on the ground, breaking out in large purple boils.

"Well, that was rather a disaster," Professor Striker says conversationally. "The lesson we can all take from this is that dueling can be very dangerous if the participants are unprepared, and it is by no means something that should be undertaken by first-year students or by students in general. There's really only one person in this class who's managed to properly close off a duel. Ten points to Gryffindor, Lupin."

Remus blushes, smiling in a sort of I'm-sheepishly-proud-of-myself way.

As soon as Striker removes James and Lily's antlers and the boils, the only major damage of the class, we're allowed to head off to Charms.

"Hey, good job, Remus," Lily calls, running a hand ruefully over her now-smooth head on the way out of the classroom.

"Thanks," Remus turns, beaming, to the three of us. "That was pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah, you're a proper terror on the dueling front. You should have kept the antlers, James, they improved your looks."

"Shut up, or I'll give you a nice set right in the middle of that pretty hair of yours."

"Hear that? I have pretty hair. Thank you so much, James, that's unbelievably flattering."

I send Lacerta off from the Owlery that night with a rather formal letter to my parents, asking to stay at James's over Easter. She returns Wednesday morning, with a query—is this James Potter boy related to a certain Hadrian Potter, or not?

"Do you know Adrian Potter, James?"

"That's my dad's name. Why?"

"No reason." I figure if my mother mentions James's dad's name, it can't be for a good reason—he's definitely the "meddling blood-traitor", so I put quill to paper.

_James says Adrian Potter is a distant cousin of his father's, but they haven't spoken in over twenty years, and Mr. Potter doesn't approve of his cousin's views. By the way, please congratulate Bellatrix and Rodolphus for me. _

_Sirius_

I'm fervently hoping my mother doesn't know the Potter family tree as well as she knows our own, and my deception will pass undiscovered.

Sure enough, when Lacerta delivers my mother's response the next morning, it's good news. I can spend Easter with the Potters. Now I just have to hope my parents never meet James's.

James wakes us up at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, the day of the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match. It's a lovely day for a game, bright, clear and crisp, the last of the previous weekend's snow finally melted. James is positively vibrating with excitement as we head down to the pitch, a big Gryffindor banner wrapped around his shoulders.

"Look at Slughorn! That's some team spirit!" Peter grabs my arm. The Slytherin Head is waddling ahead of us in an emerald-green velvet smoking jacket, long silver cloak, and pointed green-and silver striped hat.

When the two teams soar out onto the field, the noise is deafening. Most Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs seem to be supporting us, but the Slytherins are extremely vocal.

"Who's that hag?" I yell in James's ear, and he stops jumping up and down shrieking long enough to answer me.

"Livonia Bulstrode! First female Slytherin Beater in two centuries!"

"Well, I doubt any boy would have an advantage over her." I mutter. Livonia Bulstrode is easily twice my size, and built along the general lines of a brick wall. Face like a brick wall, too.

The game is rough indeed. The other Slytherin Beater hits Ted Tonks in the head with his bat to stop him from scoring a goal and our Keeper is given a foul for using his elbows too much. That's the first five minutes of the game. Livonia Bulstrode attempts to knock our Seeker, Ingram, out of the air, and almost succeeds. There are Bludgers and players on brooms flying here, there, and everywhere, and the Quaffle changes hands like the proverbial hot potato. The Slytherin team is better than the Gryffindor team, but not much. We've got a fair chance. James would still be screaming his head off even if we didn't, though.

"The Snitch! The bloody Snitch! The Blitch! I mean, Snitch!" James yelps. The two Seekers spot it too. It's near enough to us that I spot Ingram's mouth open in a wordless yell as she catapults by. But the Slytherin Seeker is ahead, and he reaches it first. The final score is 300: 110, Slytherin. I think James might be crying.

"You know, sometimes in war you are defeated. Sometimes the evil archenemy is victorious. But do we moan? Do we give up? No! We kick their slimy arses next season!" James brandishes the Gryffindor banner like it's a tattered battle flag, standing in the corner of the common room like a general marshaling his dejected troops.

"You'd make a great Quidditch captain, mate. Can I keep the banner?"

"Why?" Peter asks curiously.

"So I can see the look on my dear mum's face when I hang it in my bedroom."

* * *

A/N: (Yes, another one.)

So, Bellatrix is getting married. And I am planning the wedding now. I could use some helpful dress/cake/wedding party ideas. I've got a few thoughts kicking around, but I could use a little reader input. Thanks in advance.

Also, I know J.K. Rowling has said James's parents' names were Dorea and _"_Charlus" but I think Charlus is an appallingly dumb name, even for a wizard. So I changed it to Adrian. No offense meant to JKR.


	10. Exploding Snape

I got the idea for the prank because every time I tried to type Exploding Snap it always came out Exploding Snape.

* * *

Chapter Ten: Exploding Snap(e)

It's been a few weeks since the Lightning Cauldron Incident, and we haven't done anything major to Snape, but ideas of revenge have been swimming around my mind. We've got to plan a particularly epic prank to retaliate. The genesis of our perfect revenge plot comes one stormy Friday towards the end of January, totally by accident.

Rain lashes the windows of our first-year boys' dormitory, and I can hear thunder outside. I love the sound of rainstorms, the boom and crash of them. I love the deep gray anvil-shaped clouds and the turbulence of the sky on days like this one. It's exhilarating to be outside when it storms, to feel the rain beat down on my head, soak my clothes, and streak my face. But it's also comforting to be warm and dry, indoors, curled up on top of my red-curtained bed, like I am now.

All four of us are in the dorm at the moment, working on an essay about the theory of sleeping potions that Slughorn's assigned. At least, Remus and Peter are working. I've finished everything but the conclusion, and am now content to lay idle on the bedspread, listening to the thunder. Remus is re-reading his drafted essay, making notes in the margin. Peter is paging nervously through the textbook, quill tucked behind his ear, occasionally asking questions of the room at large. James is rifling around in his trunk, answering most of Peter's questions, since Remus is busy and I'm focused on the storm.

"So why exactly do you always need the Waverly Moss in there?"

"Well, I think the general theory is something about absorption, like of the thoughts that would distract you from going to sleep—right, Remus?"

"Yes, that's it," Remus says absently, scribbling on his parchment.

"Yeah, so you need the moss for thought absorption, it's one of the necessary ingredients—I can't believe this!"

"What?" I ask, glancing over. James has strewn quite a bit of his trunk's contents all over his bed and the surrounding floor. There's even a cloak tossed over Remus's feet, which he hasn't noticed yet.

"I haven't got _any_ Dungbombs left!" His face is so outraged I have to laugh.

"What, no Dungbombs? Call yourself a prankster? You should be ashamed!"

"Have you got any, Sirius?"

I shake my head. "Don't think so."

"Either of you?"

"No, sorry," Peter says.

"Do I honestly seem like the sort of person who would cart Dungbombs around?"

"Come on, Remus, I know you're not as prissy as McGonagall thinks you are."

"What do you want Dungbombs for anyway?" Remus asks with a good deal of dignity for somebody who's just been told teachers think they're prissy.

"I was thinking we could give Evans a lovely birthday present." James grins mischievously. "It's on the thirtieth, I heard her mention it to Macdonald in Charms."

"Well, we could get over to Zonko's." I say matter-of-factly. "With the secret passage and all."

"Not in this weather we won't." James says. "Not even you'd want to get this wet."

"I like rain."

"So do I, just not when there's about ten tons of it falling on my skull every second. We should go tomorrow morning. 'Cause her birthday's the day after."

"Let's make up a list of things we need. I want one of those trick quills that shoot ink out of the ends."

James grabs a scrap of parchment and a hopefully non-rigged quill out of the assorted belonging heaped around him.

"Right, so…Dungbombs, some of those shooter quills for Sirius, oh, Stinkpellets…"

He scribbles enthusiastically.

"Can I see?" I ask once he seems to have finished. I lean off the end of the bed, and he reaches out and passes it up to me.

I read the list, scrawled out in James's characteristically sloppy handwriting. I squint at the last item on it.

"Exploding Snape?" I laugh.

"Exploding _Snap. _My set's gone and burnt out."

"This little curlicue on the end of the 'p' looks like an 'e'."

"That'd be a good prank." Peter says thoughtfully from across the room. "If we could make him explode. Like with cards or something."

James and I stare at him. Remus slowly lowers the scroll blocking his face. "Stuff his clothes with Snap cards?"

Now we're staring at both of them.

"You're geniuses, you are." James says weakly.

We make the trip to Hogsmeade as soon as the rain lets up mid-morning on Saturday. We get some odd looks from the Zonko's shopkeeper, since he really only gets student-age customers on trip days, and massive amounts of them then. We're laden down with bags of merchandise by the time we leave—a few Dungbombs for Lily Evans's birthday "celebrations", as well as pretty much every pack of Exploding Snap cards the shop stocks. We even manage to get a few squirter quills.

In the morning sunlight, even if it's a bit pale and watery-looking after the storm, the Shrieking Shack is a lot less scary. It's still a dilapidated old pile of bricks, but it's no longer looming on the hillside, shadowed in darkness like something out of a nightmare. It's also no longer emitting noises like a chorus of the damned, which definitely helps limit the terror factor of the house.

"Let's go up and check it out," James says excitedly.

"I'm in. What's the worst that could be in there, ghosts?" I say.

Peter looks from me to James, swallows, and announces "Ghosts can't hurt anybody. Let's go."

We all look at Remus, the only one who hasn't said anything. He shrugs. "Alright."

He was sick the night we actually heard the Shack shriek, so we fill him in on the details as we clamber up the hill. He doesn't look as scared as we expect him to, even though James and I tell the story with spooky sound effects. He just looks kind of anxious and sad.

We can't get into the Shack; the windows are all sealed. This is disappointing and relieving at the same time. Up close, the Shack looks even more like, well, a shack. It's a run-down, crusty sort of place. It's also a little sinister, even in the daytime. We gather up the Zonko's bags, bored with trying to pry the windows open, and set off down the hillside again.

Most of Saturday afternoon is spent plotting exactly how to pull Exploding Snape off. The plan is to line a cloak with cards, sewn up into the cloth, rig them with spells to explode upon human contact, and find some way to swap it with Snape's actual cloak. We know he usually takes it off during classes, and then puts it on to wear in the halls, so we can do it during one of the lessons we have with him. Obviously, there are multiple facets of this plan.

First, we have to get the cards sewn into the cloak. Since none of us can sew, this is a problem. There might be a spell that sews things up, but we don't know it. We end up deciding to commandeer a house-elf from the kitchens. Since they sew the badges on our robes at the start of the year, some of them at least must be able to do it for us.

Second, we have to find the spell that will get them to explode when Snape puts on the cloak. This takes a lot of research and a very long trip to the library, where we check out practically every book on time delay and contact spells that the grumpy librarian, Madam Pince, can direct us to. Once all the books have been carted back to the dorm, research commences.

"This is boring," I announce loudly several hours late, turning the pages of a ridiculously thick book entitled _Chronomanipulative Enchantment. _"Also, what kind of a word is 'chronomanipulative' anyway? It's got to be one of the longest words ever."

"Supercalifragilisticexpialid ocious," Remus says sagely and inexplicably.

"What is that, a spell or something?"

"No, it's a word from a Muggle movie. I used to love it when I was little."

"What's it mean?"

"Not sure, actually. Anyhow, Sirius, you have to read gigantic boring books sometimes if you want to do complex magic."

"I know that, I'm not an idiot."

"Hey, this looks promising," James looks up from _Pulling the Magical Trigger_ excitedly. "It's set off by body heat!"

"We'll have to be careful not to blow our own heads off."

"Don't be such a pessimist, Peter. We won't blow anyone's head off."

"Ah, not even Snivellus?"

"Not even him."

"I was joking, James. Don't you have a sense of humor?"

"How can you even ask that question? I'm deeply hurt. I thought we were friends."

"Shut up and read."

"Bloody hell, Remus. That was fierce."

"I can be fierce when I'm trying to read and certain people I could mention won't be quiet."

"Don't make me throw this at you," James holds his pillow aloft.

Remus raises his eyebrows. "You'd miss."

"Really? Want to bet on that?"

"I'm not a betting man myself."

"You're not any sort of man. You're eleven years old."

"Throw the damn pillow already, James! My hair is turning gray."

"Shut up, Sirius."

"Come on, like he said, throw it already."

"You think I'm gonna—" Midsentence, he hurls the pillow at Remus, who deftly flattens himself against the bed, ducking the projectile.

I scramble up off the bed, _Chronomanipulative Enchantment _forgotten, my own pillow in hand.

"I knew it, you missed me." Remus announces triumphantly, straightening himself up a moment before Peter beans him over the head from behind.

"Aaaaarrrrggggh!" He sprawls sideways, flailing at Peter with his legs.

I jump happily onto his bed, swinging my pillow at Peter, and accidentally hitting James instead, as he launches himself upwards.

The pillow fight is fast and furious, collapsing into a tangle of limbs on Remus's bed, pillows strewn around the dorm, and a thick leather-bound book, tossed aside, lying in a position on the floor that would give Madam Pince a heart attack. We're all breathless and panting, and James's glasses have fallen off and are poking me in the ear.

"You lot are so distractible," Remus laments.

"Oh, and since when are you any better?" James admonishes him. "Sirius, mate, give me those specs. I can't see a foot in front of my face."

By the time we go to bed that night, we've identified several spells that should combine to give us the effect we want. All that remains is to experiment properly with Snap cards, and see if the combinations are effective. We'll be using stand-alone cards now, of course, since we're not going to stuff the cloak until we've spelled them properly.

At breakfast on Sunday, Lily is surrounded by a small flock of Gryffindor girls. Alice, Mary, and Kathryn are all exclaiming over something she's shown them. I lean over a platter of eggs to get a look at it. Alice reaches up, grabs my head, and pushes it slightly to the side.

"Nosy, aren't you?" she says jokingly. "They were posted to the dorm."

The thing Lily's got is a pair of little emerald stud earrings, the exact same color as her eyes.

"From my parents," she says, smiling happily. "And they wrote and said I can get my ears pierced over Easter break. Tuney—that's my sister—got hers done when she was twelve."

"I didn't know you had a sister, Evans," I say, helping myself to fried tomatoes. "So she's older?"

"She'll be sixteen in August."

"She's a Muggle, then?"

Lily nods, and then turns to Kathryn. "Kate, could you get that little compact mirror out of your bag? I want to see what these look like on me."

"Those are really pretty, Evans. Happy birthday, by the way." James deposits himself on the bench next to me and promptly dives for the platter of tomatoes.

"Thanks." Lily frowns at her reflection in the pocket mirror, pressing one of the tiny emeralds to her earlobe.

There's a coughing noise from behind me. I turn around to face Severus Snape, who's standing rather awkwardly next to the Gryffindor table.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I ask loudly. Next to me, James looks like he's about to ask the same thing.

"Is it illegal to walk around the Hall now?" Snape says, with what he clearly imagines is biting sarcasm. "Happy birthday, Lily."

"Thank you, Sev." Lily smiles up at him. "Do you like my birthday present?" She points at the earrings.

"They look beautiful." Snape mumbles, scuffing his foot on the ground. He's blushing slightly. He swallows, then ploughs on. "You look beautiful."

"Thanks. I'm getting the piercing done over break. I can't wait!"

"I have to go. See you later, Lily." Mulciber and a Slytherin second-year named Avery are gesturing to Snape from across the hall. They look kind of angry.

"See you, Sev!" Lily waves.

"I think he's got a crush on you, coming over here like that," James announces rather tactlessly. He doesn't look particularly happy about it.

"Ew, thinking about Snivellus liking anyone is disgusting." I say, shuddering melodramatically. Lily rolls her eyes at me, but addresses James.

"Sev? No, it's just we've been friends since way before Hogwarts. He was the first magic person I ever met. It's because of him that I knew I was a witch before the letter came." She smiles reminiscently, then looks up at James. "Can I have some of those tomatoes?"

Over by the Slytherin table, Snape's reached the other two. He and Avery appear to be having some sort of argument. Mulciber's glaring over at us. As Snape shrugs, apparently in defeat, and follows Avery to the table, I wave cheekily over at Mulciber.

By mid-afternoon, we've identified a series of spells that, when activated, will give us the desired pranking effect. All the cards should go off at once, when they've been warmed by body heat for about five minutes, so when we carry it we won't set it off accidentally. The explosion won't hurt anyone permanently, even the person wearing the cloak, but Snape will be jarred and possibly a little charred. And it'll be loud.

We don't have the Slytherins in class until Defense against the Dark Arts on Tuesday, but we decide to go find a house-elf to do the sewing anyhow. Peter and I go down to the kitchens, while Remus and James stay in the dorm, slicing open the seams of the cloak, and stuffing the cards inside, spreading them out so there aren't any suspicious-looking clumps.

A house-elf called Embry volunteers himself to do our sewing. Actually several house-elves volunteer, since the whole species is helpful to a fault, but Embry is the loudest.

The elf squeaks in shock once we've smuggled him up into the dormitory. House-elves are very clean, and our dorm is most decidedly not, especially after a day of rather explosive experimentation. Embry's pointed little face is horrified, and his large amber-colored eyes sweep the room, lingering on Remus's soot-streaked hair and the tattered sheet hanging off my bed.

"Oh, sirs, what on earth has happened here? Embry must get some of the other elves, and clean this mess."

The other three look at me helplessly. Since I'm the only one with a house-elf at home, apparently I have become the designated dealing-with-traumatized-elves guy. Even though I'm not on the best terms with Kreacher, I'm still probably the best choice.

Bending down to Embry's level, I try to keep my voice calming, but still in command. "Well, Embry, we'd like to have the room cleaned later. You should come back while we're at dinner. "

It's best to make a house-elf feel like they're working hard by giving lots of orders, and sometimes they get upset if they know something's unclean and they can't fix it, so we'll have to let them tidy up here.

"Right now, I want you to sew up this cloak for me."

Embry nods, his long, tapered ears bobbing. "Yes, young master, Embry would be glad to put stitches on whatever is ripped."

"Thank you, Embry."

Having grabbed the cloak, the seams he's to sew up pointed out to him carefully by Remus, the house-elf bows to all four of us and then disappears with a loud crack.

"They're weird, house-elves, aren't they?" Peter says, staring at the place where Embry vanished.

"You do _not _want to meet Kreacher." I say fervently. I glance over at James. "You know, I would have thought your family would have an elf. Most pureblood families I know do."

My family really only socializes with families that are just as old and just as rich as we are, and those are the sort of people who have house-elves. I'm positive the Potters have money, and they're an old family as well, just more open-minded than the sort of Old Families (_always _pronounced as if capitalized) my mother is obsessed with.

"We did when I was little." James says. "She died, though, and we never really bothered getting another. She was quite sweet. I don't remember much about her, to tell the truth."

Well, that clears up the why-doesn't-James-have-an-elf question, I guess. The secondary prank we've been planning, involving Lily Evans and Dungbombs, takes place immediately after Embry leaves, and we've gone down to the common room.

"Happy birthday again, Evans." James says innocently, holding out a small package wrapped in pretty pink stripes.

"Er, thanks, Potter." She unties the ribbon, and rips away at the paper, revealing a small cardboard box. When the box lid is removed, the Dungbomb ignites in her face. It's not even much of a prank, really. It's only one Dungbomb, although having something loud and smelly disguised as a nice little package must be rather trying.

Lily shrieks, dropping the box, and spends the next ten minutes chasing James around the common room, shouting insults at him while struggling to keep herself from laughing. There's no struggle at all for me. Draped across one of the squashy armchairs, I'm in such hysterics that I don't even notice Lily bearing down on me until she's already smacked the top of my head, rather hard, and headed off for the girl's dorms.

"And I don't like pink, Potter!" She yells over her shoulder.

"Why not? Too girly for you?"

"No! It clashes with my hair!"

"Well, I wasn't asking her to wear the wrapping paper on her head," James says to me.

"Speaking of heads, she hits rather hard," I say. "Oh, stop laughing, Remus. You look like a nitwit."

Remus snorts. "I'd say this round goes to the birthday girl."

When we get back from dinner, the dormitory is completely cleaned up, and the sewn-up cloak is lying across the foot of my bed, closest to the door.

"Now all we have to do is wait for Tuesday," I say with the sort of slightly vindictive satisfaction that goes along with planning a particularly good prank.

Waiting for Tuesday, however, is more interesting than I first thought. Lily, in revenge for her not-so-well-intentioned birthday present, plants frog spawn in James's tomato soup at lunch on Monday. James and I practice our Unlocking Charms on the school broom cabinet that night, and use our acquired booty to secretly fly around the Quidditch pitch.

On Tuesday morning before breakfast, Peeves the Poltergeist gets in a fight with one of the sixth-year Ravenclaw prefects. Peeves wins, obviously. Peeves always wins. The prefect ends up stuck to a statue of Baldric the Bold with glue. Something interesting is always happening at Hogwarts.

Finally, the long-awaited class arrives. Defense against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins, right before lunch. Peter pokes his head around the door to see if Snape's arrived yet.

"He's in there!" he hisses, turning to face us. "Right at the back!"

"What about his cloak? Is his cloak off?" James asks.

"Hang on, let me check…yeah, he's got it over the chair back."

When we enter the classroom, which is mostly full, James and I bump into each other as a distraction, directly in front of his desk, while Remus stealthily switches the cloaks. We stow Snape's real cloak, the frayed edges of which are hemmed up inside, under one of the desks.

We take it in turns watching Snape throughout the lesson, which is on enchanted mists and other forms of airborne curses. Finally, when there's only about ten minutes left in class, he pulls "his" cloak off the back of the chair and puts it on, still fervently scribbling notes with a bedraggled quill. I poke James and Remus excitedly, and elbow Peter, who's sitting next to me, in the ribs. Since he's a bit chubby, unlike my skinny little brother, who's the usual target of any elbowing on my part, I can't actually feel his ribs, but that's not the point of elbowing someone. After all three of my friends have been notified, we all immediately return to our own note-taking, with innocent expressions fixed on our faces.

I glance up at the clock fixed over Professor Striker's desk, watching the little hand tick slowly around. I've never been a patient person, but knowing we're this close to a lovely big explosion and I can't do anything to hurry it up is aggravating.

Just five minutes until it blows… just three minutes… just barely a minute…only about thirty seconds…it should be happening now…why isn't it happening?

BOOM!

All three and a half packs of Snap cards Embry sewed into the cloak ignite simultaneously. The force of the blast tears the cloak into shreds, ripping up Snape's school robes underneath it substantially as well. It also knocks him off his chair, yelping. He sprawls on the classroom floor, smoking copiously. Just as he did in our dueling class when Peter's misfired spell burnt his hair slightly, he smells of hot bacon grease. Apparently explosions and oily hair are not a good combination.

The class's reaction to Snape's apparent spontaneous combustion is basically hysterical laughter. Most of the Gryffindors almost fall out of their seats as well, and even the Slytherins find their Housemate's predicament funny. Lily Evans is torn between outrage and amusement, and as a result makes some very strange facial expressions. Even Professor Striker has to laugh, although she claps a hand to her mouth to suppress it.

Snape grabs the leg of his chair and hauls himself up, flushing blotchily with embarrassment. Not looking anyone in the eye, he returns to his seat.

"Well, er, on that note I'll end class," Striker still looks like she's trying not to laugh. "Airborne curses, you all. Avoid funny-looking clouds hovering around ground level. You can go."

"No homework, then?" Vanderlinden asks.

"Actually, yes, you've got some."

Several people glare at the Slytherin girl for reminding our teacher of any planned assignment.

"Pick a type of spell that manifests atmospherically and write a theoretical essay on it. I want eighteen inches of parchment, please. Due a week from this class. Oh, and Snape—" He stops where he is, attempting to scuttle out the door as everyone gets their things together.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Could you stay behind for a bit?"

"Yes, Professor."

The four of us join the crowd of students lurking outside the classroom, discussing the explosion excitedly.

"That was bloody brilliant," James announces proudly.

"Job well done," I say, holding my hand up. James slaps my palm with his.

"Did you guys do that?" Jessica O'Connell asks. "That was amazing!"

"How'd you do it?" Alice grins. "What'd you use for the explosion?"

"Snap cards," James announces proudly. "We swapped cloaks."

"Can't you just leave him alone for once?" Lily frowns.

"You laughed. Sort of," James points out.

"Yeah, well…"

"Admit it, it was funny."

"And anyway, he got us first in Potions. We were justified_._" I say.

"Alright." Lily says. "He did spike your potion."

"What'd he put in it, Evans?" Peter asks.

"Not going to tell you. It's a secret."

"Wait, _Snape_ made their cauldron spout lightning like that?" Alice asks. "I knew that didn't just happen."

The girls move off towards lunch, arguing about which prank was more spectacular. We're alone outside the classroom now, a little further down the hallway.

"Do you think she's asking him who did it?" Remus glances nervously at the DADA classroom door.

"Like he can prove it was us." I say contemptuously.

"And if he'll have to admit he blew out our potion if he wants to say we were getting revenge. He won't tell." James explains.

"But how do we know for sure?" Peter is biting his nails, which is a habit of his I've noticed acts up when he's particularly nervous.

"We wait out here and ask him." James says confidently. "Shouldn't take long."

"We're going to wait and ask Snape if he told on us," Remus repeats in disbelief.

"That's what the man said," I lean casually against the wall, watching the door.

After a few minutes of silence, it swings open, and Snape scurries out. When he sees the four of us, he straightens up, as if preparing for battle. Remus and Peter are standing further back, and I'm still against the wall, next to James, who's facing Snape.

"What are you going to do, hex me practically in front of a teacher? Not even Gryffindors could be that stupid."

"Did you tell her?" James's voice is brisk and calm. The way he's phrased it could be a simple question. If I was asking, it would be an obvious threat.

Snape stares directly at James with hatred in his eyes. He can sense the subtle aggression, and his initial silence accentuates the tension that's thick in the air. He's purposely lengthening the space between James's question and his response, trying to make us wonder if he told.

I feel a sharp jab of anger. He's deliberately playing with us. I'm going to make him respond.

"You—" I push myself off the wall and start forward. James tears his eyes away from Snape's and shakes his head at me.

_Stand down. This is between him and me, _his expression reads. I lean back against the wall, glaring at Snape, who smirks at me briefly and then returns his gaze to James.

James crosses his arms. "Did you tell?" he repeats.

Snape looks him directly in the eye and slowly shakes his head. He turns and walks down the hallway, not towards the Great Hall and lunch, but towards the dungeons, back to the Slytherin dormitory and a change for his tattered robes.


	11. Suspicious Behavior

I'm not J.K. Rowling. Don't sue me.

This was one of my favorite chapters to write. Read, hopefully enjoy, and please leave a review.

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Suspicious Behavior.

"I wonder if there are others?" James asks casually, one dreary Monday night in late February. He's nestled into the corner of one of the squishy red common room armchairs, scribbling away on a Charms worksheet. It's dark outside, the windowpane glass an opaque grayish-black.

"Care to explain what you mean?" I say, looking over at him. I've been lying on the floor, staring broodingly into the fire while avoiding my own homework. Remus and Peter have already finished up, but James and I had a double detention after dinner for talking in DADA class. I'll work on it later; it doesn't take me long anyhow, and there's something about February nights that makes me want to lie around, bored, bemoaning the long drag of winter.

"Secret tunnels. Like the one to Hogsmeade," he clarifies. "Hey, Fount of All Knowledge, any ideas?"

Remus glances up from the Herbology notes he's going over with Peter. He was sick again recently, missing almost a week of classes, and though he had lesson materials brought up to the hospital wing, he's still catching up with his work. He even had to see McGonagall once during a free period to clarify some of the topics we've been working on. We weren't able to visit him while he was in hospital until the day before his release. Madam Collins said he had a contagious, potion-resistant strand of influenza.

Peter actually takes the best notes of all of us, so it's good to have him to copy off of. James's handwriting is mostly unintelligible, I write down only the minimum facts I think I'll need, and Remus himself usually uses a sort of shorthand only he understands. Peter, however, takes very complete notes, if a little wordy.

"Well, there are loads of hidden rooms in Hogwarts," he says. "Doors and things too."

"Like that storage room near Ravenclaw tower that's hidden behind the tapestry?"

"Everyone knows about that one, Peter," I say disparagingly. "I mean, Filch keeps carpet cleaners in there. It's not exactly secret. Just concealed."

"Sort of like that, Peter," James says. Peter beams. "But, I mean, if there are all these rooms hiding in the castle, there have got to be some no one's found yet. And if there's one secret passage, there's probably another."

"I'd say that, yes." Remus agrees.

I scramble to a seated position, all thoughts of February and the necessary moodiness forgotten.

"Shall we head out, then?"

"Haven't you still got homework?" Peter asks anxiously.

"We can finish in first period. I doubt Binns would notice if we set ourselves on fire."

"Curfew's in an hour. We won't get much time." James says, standing up purposefully.

"We're heading back at curfew? Ew, why?"

"Because I wouldn't want to give Snivellus the satisfaction of having his all-Gryffindors-are-reckless-dolts theory proved right. Besides, Filch gave some sixth-years a week's detention for being out too late, and I haven't got a death wish. He's a nutter."

"True," I admit.

We head across the hall, James pushing the portrait door open, and slip out into the corridor.

Although we don't manage to find any truly fascinating passageway-type secrets, a good hour wandering around Hogwarts is never exactly boring. Someone's toad is loose in the Transfiguration wing, hopping about chasing an enchanted sugar mouse. The mouse wanders into my shoe, and rebounds, squeaking shrilly, in the opposite direction. There's the typical pair of older students ensconced in an alcove, which we skirt tactfully. We also avoid the corridor containing Filch, sweeping madly and muttering to himself. Like James said, we haven't got a death wish.

"Oh, drat," Remus says, glancing at the battered pocket watch he always carries. It's a simple Muggle one, with plain numerals and simple hands, not elaborately decorated with confusing symbols like my father's.

"What?" James is further down the corridor, feeling around in the recess behind a large green ceramic vase.

"It's five to nine! We need to get back."

"Okay, fine, fine. I'm coming."

I fall back to walk with James on the way to the common room. Despite the sugar mouse chase and the general interest factor of nighttime wanderings, I'm a little disappointed. I wanted to find a new secret passage. I guess I was looking for a repeat of James's and my first night out, when we stumbled on the shortcut to Hogsmeade by accident. You can't get lucky every time.

To my surprise, though, James is grinning excitedly.

"Why are you so happy? Find anything behind that vase?"

"No, but don't worry. We'll get something eventually."

"You reckon?"

"Oh yeah. See, we didn't really plan tonight's adventure."

"Planning's not my strong suit."

"Well, we need to think about where a passageway would be. Just wandering the castle peering behind things isn't going to work as well."

I smile, understanding what he means. The first passage has markers of a sort. The axe in the hands of the suit of armor. The armor at Hogwarts usually doesn't have weapons. Something to act as a trigger. Can't have a passage opening without a command. A mirror, or a tapestry like the one that hides Filch's carpet storage room. Something to hide the passage's entrance itself. Even in Hogwarts, it's unlikely to appear out of thin air.

"We'll have to look for signs," I muse. "Weird-shaped statues or something."

"All the statues here are weird," Peter pipes up.

"Exceptionally weird ones, then. Or anything with moving parts. Anything that shouldn't be there."

"We'll have to check behind all the tapestries as well, won't we?"

"Nah, don't think so. It wouldn't hurt, but the ones there are more likely to be well-known. Plus there are way too many tapestries to check all of them," James explains.

"That's a good point," Peter says. "I didn't think of that."

The prospect of a well-organized passageway search is very sustaining, and I find myself in an observant mood come morning. During the times between classes, I stare around at statues and suits of armor, looking for anomalies. I'm only beginning to realize just how enormous and convoluted the castle is.

I didn't walk into the Great Hall on September First gazing in awe at the starry ceiling like the Muggleborn students. I didn't jump and shriek bloody murder when the stairs moved under me like Mary Macdonald, whose parents apparently run a Muggle grocery store. I've grown up surrounded by talking portraits and other enchanted objects, so coming here wasn't nearly as much of a shock.

The shock effect is starting to kick in now. I'm only just comprehending how vast Hogwarts is. There are so many statues, paintings, and doors to who-knows-where I've never even noticed before scattered between my classrooms. We haven't even been to most of the castle's wings yet, and I'm getting the feeling that untold secrets lurk around us, unsuspected. Though my friends and I have ventured out at night to explore before, for the first time I feel a sudden, passionate urge to investigate, to discover.

Before we can head to lunch, Remus has to check in with McGonagall about his makeup work. We hover around outside the classroom as the class disperses. James produces a Yodeling Yo-yo sent earlier this week in one of his packages from home. He slips the string loop around his finger, and shoots the yo-yo, painted an eye-catching florescent orange, at the ground. The sound that emits from the enchanted object is a genuine yodel, the sort that summons images of lederhosen and the Swiss Alps.

"Why is it everything you own seems to make loud noises?" Lily Evans asks, swinging her satchel over one shoulder as she emerges from the classroom. James swings the yo-yo upwards, tucking it back into the pocket of his robes.

"Well, first of all, wizards can make loud noises very easily. Secondly, boys like loud noises. Thirdly, I'm both a boy and a wizard. Thus, we can conclude that I am surrounded by loud noises."

"Is 'thirdly' even a word?"

"Sirius, you just ruined my whole scientific conclusion. I hope you're pleased with yourself."

"Very much so, thank you."

"Is Remus seeing her to catch up, then?" Lily asks. "I thought you'd know."

"Yeah. You miss a lot if you're sick for a week, obviously."

"But _he _wasn't sick, was he? I thought it was his mum. Didn't he go home and see her?"

"No, 'course not. We went up to see him in hospital." I say.

Lily looks uncertain. "He told me he was going to visit his mum."

"You must have gotten confused," James says. He doesn't look entirely sure, though. "She was sick earlier in the year, and he went home to see her. Maybe you got this time mixed up with earlier."

"I could have sworn he said he was going home," Lily muses. "Well, that's a fascinating mystery, but I've got to run and get somewhere."

"Are you still meeting Snape in the library during lunch? Why? What were you doing with _him _anyway?" James asks.

Lily gives him the sort of look that could freeze Firewhisky. "It's absolutely none of your business if Severus and I study together sometimes, Potter," she says icily, before sweeping off down the corner. For a slim girl who barely comes up to my shoulder and is currently wearing her hair in braided pigtails, she is very formidable.

"What does she see in him, anyway?" James asks incredulously. "It baffles the mind."

"Yeah, the initial reaction when confronted with that much slime ought to be to run as fast as you can in the other direction. She must be missing some crucial part of her brain."

"Like her gag reflex." Peter says. I'm not sure whether he's trying to make a joke or just responding literally to what I said, but it fits into the conversation perfectly. Peter's got a sort of gift for listening to almost all of a conversation silently and then interjecting something amusing at the very end. It's a useful skill to have around people like me and James, who usually dominate any talking.

The door swings open behind us at that point, and Remus appears, with McGonagall herself directly at his heels.

"Are all of you merely waiting for your friend, or should I be worried at your fascination with the outside of my classroom?" she asks, looking down her long nose at us with the sort of superbly stern expression that is probably trademarked under "McGonagall, Minerva" at the Wizarding Patents Registry.

"Don't worry, Professor, we're just here to get Remus," I say.

"The attack comes later," James adds brightly, smiling up at her. His eyes flash mischievously behind the thick, ovular lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles.

"There will be trained warrior flamingos," I say in ominous tones.

"With you two, I don't doubt it," McGonagall says severely.

I give her my most beatific smile. James smirks from ear to ear.

"Now get along to lunch, before I give the lot of you detention."

"Yes, sir!" James salutes.

Laughing, we race off to the Great Hall, leaving a trying-not-to-smile McGonagall in our wake. By the time we slide into our customary seats at the Gryffindor table, we've started discussing the upcoming Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match. It isn't till we're finishing up our meals and preparing to head for the greenhouses that anyone remembers what Lily said earlier.

"So, Remus, how come Evans seems to think you went home last week?" James asks curiously.

Remus chokes on a piece of broccoli. Peter and I slap him on the back and, coughing, he takes a big gulp of his pumpkin juice.

"She said you said your mum was ill again, but you were the sick one. Did you tell her that?" James continues, unperturbed.

"Um, no," Remus gasps. "I…I didn't. She…"

"Must have gotten this confused with the last time you went home." James says.

"Er, yeah. That's what must have happened." Remus looks grateful for the supplied answer. He's still flushed, though, and nervous-looking as well, in a way that doesn't seem to relate to his earlier choking. He pushes the silverware to the side of his not-quite empty plate and dives under the table for his bookbag.

I pull my own up onto the bench, rifling through it to make sure all my Herbology textbooks are packed up. People are starting to leave the hall for their classes in large numbers.

"I should go," Remus says, returning from under the table. "Er…I want to ask Sprout about those Stabbing Nettles."

"I'll go with you!" Peter says, looking up from his ham-and-cheese sandwich. "I didn't really get it either, she just sort of mentioned it in passing and I wrote it down."

"Um, okay." Remus says. He doesn't sound particularly pleased. Since he's usually more patient with Peter than I am, he must want to be alone for some reason. Peter glances down at the sandwich, then at Remus, who's edging towards the door.

"You can take it with you, you know," James says, smiling.

"Oh. Yeah." He departs, bearing the sandwich. Remus looks relieved, but is still a bit red in the face.

"What's up with him?"

"He must have been particularly hungry today."

"No, I meant Remus, you daft prat."

"Oh, I know, just teasing you." James winks roguishly at me, but his expression soon takes on a more thoughtful cast. "I have no idea. He looked embarrassed."

"Well, why should he? It was Evans's mistake, not his."

"Unless he told her the wrong thing after all."

"That doesn't make sense."

"I know. But something here doesn't. It's very suspicious."

I nod. The whole situation smells fishy.

Or maybe that's the pickled herring on James's plate.

"We'd better get on with it. Who knows, Sprout might be in a foul mood and disembowel us with one of those nettle things if we're late."

"Sprout's never grumpy," I grumble, but swing my pack up obligingly. "The woman's a Hufflepuff. She hasn't got it in her."

"Oh, I don't know, my great-aunt was Hufflepuff and she's the fussiest, grouchiest old lady I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

James has clearly never met my own great-aunt, Elladora. The last time she saw me, at a particularly agonizing dinner party, she took one look at me and announced to the room at large that I was "slouching like some dirty Muggle tramp, despite all that fine breeding. Just dreadful." She then smacked me in the shins with her awful dragon-headed cane to make me stand up straight. You really can't tell what exactly Aunt Elladora will do, because she's half senile and was about half crazy to begin with, making her 100% unpredictable. Dinner parties with my extended family are always such a joy.

Despite our observations of castle landmarks and the time we spend during classes mapping out sketches of corridors we mean to search, it's not until several days of searching have passed that we actually make a significant discovery. Of course, two shortcuts hidden behind tapestries, a secret stairway to the Charms corridor, and a door that opens onto a long passage but ends where it started, in a kind of endless loop effect, are still fascinating finds. They're just not what we most want to find—that is, a tunnel to somewhere interesting and outside of the castle, be it Hogsmeade, the Forbidden Forest, or Mongolia. We're not picky.

We've been hurriedly eating our dinners and then running upstairs to scout out corridors in the hours before curfew all week. We treat "curfew" as a rough guideline. Not once have we returned to Gryffindor Tower before nine o'clock. However, we aren't caught in three days of searching.

On Friday night, we're investigating the DADA tower. It's a good research ground, because nobody really goes there at night. There are no dormitories nearby, and the library is on the other side of the castle. While in the area for our classes this week, we've scouted out many intriguing statues and a broad expanse of carved wood by the stairwell that looks like it could hold many secrets.

We spend a good hour combing through the intricacies of the mahogany paneling, pressing on every spiral, every rosette, and every grimacing gargoyle's face. Despite the obvious potential for a passageway—honestly, it's a massive length of wood carved with beautiful and ominous shapes! What else could be more textbook "secret passageway?"—we don't activate any triggers. No hidden rooms appear.

"Well, that's bloody disappointing," I announce, turning away from a particularly gruesome mahogany demon's head in disgust. "Absolutely nothing."

"And it's getting late." Peter adds dejectedly, poking at a floral carving of some sort with the tip of his wand.

"All is not yet lost!" James is grinning broadly, and it occurs to me suddenly that my best friend is quite definitely mad as a hatter.

"We've still got those statues down the hall left to do," Remus concurs, scanning the roll of parchment on which we organized our _modus operandi. _

If Remus agrees with James, perhaps his insane ravings are more rational than I thought.

"Alright. The statues, and if we don't find anything, then I swear to you, I'm going back to the common room and putting frog spawn in Alice's milk. This is boring."

Alice always has a glass of hot milk before bed. When I asked why, she told me it helps with digestion. I told her she'll be an old lady before her time, and asked if she wanted some prune juice as well. She asked me if I wanted her to feed me to the Giant Squid.

"Boredom goes with the territory, my friend," His Royal Looniness proclaims. "Do you think Augustinian Agathus was bored when he was staking out mountain ranges trying to prove the existence of Demiguises? Do you think he had such noble distractions as Alice Musson and her nightly hot milk surrounding him? Of course he did! Do you think—"

"I get it, I get it, Augustinian Agathus was probably bored out of his gourd too. Can we go search the statues already, or do you want to monologue all night?"

"Once you get 'em monologuing, you can't stop 'em!" Remus says cheerfully. "Works with all the villains in detective stories."

"Lupin, are you calling me a detective-story villain?"

"No." Remus looks innocent. "Not in the slightest."

The first of the statues we've got our eye on has got its eye on us too. Note the use of a singular eye. The statue is of a hump-backed crone with one bulging eyeball. The lone, beacon-like eye surveys the corridor with a piercing glare. We've worked out that the old crone's hump might make a good hiding place for a chute of some sort. James and I run our hands over the cold, rough gray stone, searching for an opening.

"Maybe with a wand?" Peter asks. He's still got his drawn.

I step back and let him at the statue. He leans forward and taps the hump. We wait for a moment. Nothing happens. Peter looks crestfallen. Then, the hump collapses on itself, creating a gaping hole, with a chute indeed visible.

"Gentleman, the jackpot!" James says exuberantly. Peter steps back from the opening, stowing his wand in a pocket. James pokes his head in the hole.

"Right then, doesn't look too steep. We should be able to climb back up this one once we've slid. Anyone want to go first? Peter? You found it."

Peter shakes his head. "How about you?"

James grins. "Good man. Knew you'd say that." He turns to look at me. "Sirius, mate, would you mind going last? Keep a lookout and all?"

Being the last person to go down the slide doesn't seem a particularly high price to pay, now that an exciting adventure has opened up for us.

"Sure," I say. "Don't scream when you go down. This is a stealth mission."

James looks deeply wounded. "Me, scream? I'm a Gryffindor."

"You screamed on the mirror passage slide."

"So did you. And that's when it opened up right underneath us."

James places one foot on the crone's pedestal and his other resting on the lip of the slide. Then, wrapping his arms around the statue's shoulders, he pulls himself up to a crouching position, both his feet on the edge. Slipping his legs so they point down the chute, he pushes off and disappears.

All three of us lean into the hole. "James?"

"I'm alright," his voice echoes up the shaft. "There's some sort of tunnel down there. Want me to head off?"

"Wait 'till we're all with you, please." Remus says. "I'll go next."

He doesn't push off feet-first like James did, instead climbing in with his head pointing downwards.

"All clear!" his voice sounds from the bottom of the chute a moment later.

"Come on, Peter!" James adds.

Peter pulls himself up foot by foot as James did, then begins to push himself down the hole. Unlike James, who's small and wiry, or skinny Remus, however, he's got a harder job wedging himself into the little gap. When only his chest, shoulders, and head stick out, a rather uncomfortable position, he stares balefully over at me.

"Don't tell me you're stuck."

"I'm stuck, Sirius."

"Blast."

"What's going on up there?"

"Peter's stuck." I grab him around the shoulders and yank upwards. He yelps in pain but doesn't budge. I pull harder. Another yelp, and a slight shift.

"Whoever designed this thing is going to pay," I mutter, disregarding the fact that they're doubtless long dead already.

"Who's there?" The voice comes from around the corner. It's an older voice, inflected with authority and arrogance. And it's quite familiar.

I release Peter, leaving him sticking out of the hump at a haphazard angle. Hopefully the statue will block him from being seen if I act as a distraction. I dart out from behind the statue and stand, tense and at the ready, slightly to the left of it.

Lucius Malfoy appears from around the corner, his wand held out in front of him, prefect's badge gleaming smugly.

"Oh. It's you."

"Hi. It's me." I wave cheekily. If I can get on his nerves as much as possible, he _might_ not notice Peter. I can still see him protruding from the hump out of the corner of my eye. He looks terrified, and appears to be holding his breath. Thankfully, Lucius is staring at me, paying no attention to the surrounding statuary.

"What are you doing here? It's nearly curfew."

"But it's not yet, is it? So I can be wherever I want."

"Not if a prefect catches you doing something suspicious. And I, for your information, am a prefect."

"Really? Wow, I didn't know that."

Irritated, Lucius repeats his earlier question. "What are you doing here?"

"Something suspicious. And you're a prefect. And you caught me. What're you gonna do to me, put me in irons?" I grin wickedly. "Set fireworks off while I'm asleep?"

He flushes angrily.

"You need to learn how to shut your mouth."

"I already learned that. Like this, see?" I close my mouth, slowly and exaggeratedly.

"I meant you need to learn some respect. I'm a prefect. A position of authority rested in me by the school. And you are a little first-year, all alone in the hallway, with no one to challenge my story if I punish you."

His voice is soft and silky, without any hint of anger, but still threatening.

"If I say you were breaking a rule, it's your word against mine. Maybe Gryffindor wouldn't be so glad to have you if I took some points off—right now?"

I swallow, refusing to let him freak me out. Lifting my chin, I stare up at him with all the arrogant defiance I've been bred to show anyone who gets in my way.

"You've forgotten something. I've got a weapon."

A quick flash of confusion crosses Lucius's pointed face, then is dispelled. "And what might that be?"

"I can tell Cissy you were mean to me for no reason. You wouldn't want your girlfriend all mad at you 'cause you bullied her poor little baby cousin." I widen my eyes innocently.

I'm gambling with this one a bit. I have no idea if Narcissa would actually spring to my defense, although she likes me much more than Bella. Also, I'm not sure if any of my relatives think of me as a poor little baby anything.

Lucius steps back. He looks like he's taking the bait. "You wouldn't."

"Oh yes I would."

Lucius grabs me by the wrist and pulls me closer to him, twisting my arm slightly. I wince, but manage to stop myself from yelping. My gut reaction is to kick him, but I'm not stupid enough to get in a fight with a seventh year more than a head taller than I am, so I restrain myself on that count as well.

"Narcissa wouldn't have any problem with me taking you back to your common room, now, would she?"

"Probably not. You try anything else and I'm telling." _And kicking you as hard as I possibly can, you bastard._

Lucius begins dragging me down the corridor, away from my trapped friends. He stares down at me, frustrated and slightly bemused.

"You really should have been in Slytherin."

"What do you mean?" I respond, baffled by his seemingly unconnected comment. "You wouldn't want me in your House. You hate me, remember?"

"Whether I'd want you creeping around in my common room doing who-knows-what is a different matter. You're a good bargainer. You'd have done well in Slytherin. What, did the Hat made you a lion because you wanted to make your parents angry?"

He's succeeded in making _me _angry. "I did not! I'm a Gryffindor for a reason. I'm brave! I'm _not_ a Slytherin! Let go of me!"

I twist furiously in his grip. He holds fast.

"I'm not letting go of you until we get to your common room."

I stamp on his foot. He exhales sharply, pushing out all the air in his lungs. I yank my arm out of his grasp. He's too quick, though, and lunges forward, grabbing my shoulder, and staying well out the way of my feet this time.

"You're a wildcat, not a lion," he hisses, trying to shove me along the corridor.

I hold myself rigid, refusing to let him move me. "Let me go or I'll do it again."

"You'll just run off if I let you go."

I roll my eyes. "Fine. I promise I won't run off."

"How do I know you're not lying?" he asks, but releases me anyway. I step away from him, rubbing my shoulder, which stings from his tight hold.

"Because, as you mentioned earlier, the Hat put me in Gryffindor. We have honor. It might not be a concept you're familiar with, but we keep our promises." I cross my arms in front of my chest. "So, since you're intent on wasting your evening marching me around places, let's head for the common room."

When we reach the Fat Lady, she's not alone. I've never been so glad to see Kingsley Shacklebolt in my life. He's standing in front of the portrait hole. As the seventh-year male prefect, he would be Lucius's direct counterpart, but he's also the Head Boy. Not only does Shacklebolt outrank Lucius, but his muscular Beater's build makes him physically formidable.

"Hello, Malfoy." His deep, slow voice is both calm and commanding. "Care to release my Housemate?"

Although Lucius is no longer restraining me, he's still standing uncomfortably close. Now, however, he backs off. He clearly chafes at following the Head Boy's instructions, but he doesn't resist the authority behind them.

"Just escorting a lost first-year back to his dormitory, Shacklebolt."

"Really?" Shacklebolt's tone is as warm and casual as Lucius's is icy. "Because a few of his friends told me you might be giving him some trouble. I don't hold with anyone bullying my Housemates, Malfoy. Particularly when the bully is a prefect and the victim is just a kid."

Although I don't like being referred to as "just a kid," I'm glad the older boy is taking my side in this.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lucius maintains.

"I'm sure you don't. Now get out of here. You've delivered your quarry safely"—he winks at me—"and I believe your own dormitory is a long way from here."

Looking angry, Lucius turns and departs.

Shacklebolt looks down at me. "Was he giving you a hard time?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle," I say boldly.

Shacklebolt laughs, rubbing a hand over the back of his glossy, shaved head. "I'm impressed, Black. From what your friends said, I was about ready to track you two down and go in for a rescue mission. Lucius Malfoy is a nasty piece of work."

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Quidditch captain, Head Boy, verbal kicker of smarmy Slytherin ass, and as of today officially the coolest person alive, knows my name. And he's impressed with me. I grin from ear to ear.

"Thanks."

"No problem." He turns to the Fat Lady. "_Arboretum_, please."

The portrait door swings forward. James, Remus, and Peter are all clustered around the opening. Their anxious expressions fade when I walk in.

"Here he is, safe and sound. Handled it all on his own, too." Shacklebolt turns back to me. "See you around, Black."

"See you around."

My friends are all staring at me. "How'd you shake Malfoy?" James asks.

"Long story." I say. I don't really feel like telling the whole thing, so I simplify it. "I stamped on his foot and got away." The simplified version isn't really accurate, but such are the casualties of a concise explanation.

"Wow, that's awesome," Peter breathes. I take a bow. They don't need the full story anyway.

"How'd _you_ get out of the witch's hump anyway?"

Peter flushes. "James and Remus climbed back up the slide and managed to pull me out. Sorry I got stuck."

"It's alright." I'm not really in the mood to hold a grudge against someone whose only crime is being pudgy.

"We ran right back up to the common room and found a prefect to help you out," Remus says earnestly.

"You know who's awesome? Kingsley Shacklebolt is awesome."

"Amen to that." James says, grinning broadly. "Being that cool actually makes up for being the Head Boy."

* * *

A/N: Want to bet James will model his Head Boy-ship on Kingsley's?


	12. Achilles, the Preteen

A/N: I haven't updated this story in ages, for which I humbly apologize.

I may have left for a while, but I'm still not J.K. Rowling.

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Achilles, the Preteen.

"So are we going to try the statue passage again?" Peter asks at breakfast the next morning. There's a helping of scrambled eggs and a piece of toast on his plate`, but he hasn't touched it yet, and it's not as much food as he usually takes. Apparently the experience of getting stuck in a hole has put him off his food a bit.

"Well, I for one am definitely going to," I say. I won't be waiting to see if Peter will fit through, either. If he has to, he can stay at school. "Now that we know it's there, I'm not exactly going to leave it be."

"What if I get stuck again?"

I don't want to be the one to tell him that I'll leave him behind, but he needs to know. As I open my mouth, though, James cuts me off.

"We'll take that as it comes. You'd better eat those eggs, starving yourself isn't going to help."

Peter nods, and starts forking the eggs onto his toast methodically. James spreads marmalade on his own toast rather sloppily, his attention still focused on Peter.

"It might work better if you went headfirst. Since Remus and I could push you out by your legs, we might be able to push you in the same way."

"That makes sense," Remus nods. He glances over at me. "Sirius, what on earth are you doing?"

I'm digging a trench around the outer rim of my bowl of oatmeal with a spoon.

"Making a moat. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You know, I stopped playing with my food at least three years ago," James says teasingly.

"It's not just a random moat. It's for the milk to go in. There's a point."

"Are you going to put raisin soldiers manning the castle battlements?" He drops several raisins onto the peaks of oatmeal.

"No, I'm going to drown them in the moat. They're an invading army." I flick a raisin into the milk trench with the tip of my spoon.

"Suit yourself. It's your breakfast castle."

"Some castles used to have 'murder holes' in the walls for invasions, you know." I say, remembering a book, _Historic Strongholds of Prominent Wizarding Families, _that's in my room at home. "The defenders would pour boiling oil and Swelling Solution and things out of them."

"Why doesn't Hogwarts have murder holes? That's not fair. Do you have any idea how many good pranks we could play on the Slytherins?"

"There might be, we just haven't seen them yet. There's always hope."

"You two would make terrifyingly good medieval barons." Remus says conversationally. "You'd constantly be sieging each other's castles and getting into massive battles. And playfully joust and play Quidditch during brief spells of peacetime."

"What about me?" Peter asks eagerly.

Remus stares at him thoughtfully for a moment, then grins.

"In Sherwood Forest. A man of the green wood. You could be a notable wizard in Robin Hood's band of merry men. Rob the rich over here"—he gestures to James and me—"while they're fighting among themselves, and distribute the goods among the poor."

Peter smiles happily. I personally would have him figured him for a good-natured peasant or a jester, but Remus has given him an important role, and he's pleased with it.

"What about you, Remus?" I ask, wondering what he'll cast himself as.

The corners of his mouth turn down, and he looks at his hands, frowning. "I don't think I'd fit in very well in the Middle Ages." His tone is soft, slightly embarrassed. He looks sad, and I have no idea why. I'm opening my mouth to interrogate him when I'm interrupted.

"I know what you'd be," Peter announces shyly but with certainty. "A monk, in some pretty stone abbey somewhere, making illuminated manuscripts, grumbling about James and Sirius's reckless wars, and sneaking out at night to go on adventures with me and Robin Hood."

James and I burst out laughing. Peter beams. Remus looks up and smiles.

"Sounds about right. What would I do if I couldn't grumble about these two being reckless?"

"I hate to end this wonderful exploration of our medieval alter egos, but I believe there's mail here for some of us," James says, pointing upwards at his own large gray owl, Roger, and a tawny one I don't recognize, swooping down on us.

The newcomer drops a letter in front of Remus's plate, then departs. Remus's parents don't own an owl, and rent them to send their son letters. Roger perches on James's shoulder and pecks at his hands, attempting to unroll the piece of parchment, until he is fed a bit of toast.

The smallish fawn-colored owl that belongs to Peter's parents arrives as well, but leaves immediately after dropping her burden, not staying for a snack. She's a very businesslike bird, and not particularly affectionate. To my surprise, my mother's owl touches down next to a jug of pumpkin juice, sticking his leg out brusquely in front of me. There's a scroll tied to his leg with a black silk ribbon.

It's unusual for all four of us to have mail on any given day. I've only had a few messages from home at all for the whole school year, and the semi-regular updates the others get from home usually don't coincide.

My friends are already perusing their letters. With some trepidation, I untie my own scroll. My mother's owl looks at me like I'm a huge dead mouse he's dying to take a bite out of, then launches himself off the table. He's a lovely bird, with silky dark plumage and golden-yellow eyes, but not a nice one. Lacerta, despite her occasional haughtiness, is a much better companion.

I glance down at the letter in my hand, and with some relief realize the handwriting is my brother's. He hasn't got his own owl yet, so he would have borrowed another. I break the wax seal and open the letter.

It's much the same as the few other letters I've received from him during the year. There's a lot about how he misses me, and how boring it is being the only child at home. Poor kid. Grimmauld Place is bad enough with a brother to play with. He's been out to our aunt and uncle's house several times, though, and he's been able to fly his broom out there. He's read most of my books as well as all of his, "and I hope you don't mind me taking the liberty."

Also, his drawing has improved, apparently. He includes some sketches—one of a sparrow on what looks like his bedroom windowsill, a picture of our mother sitting in one of the drawing room chairs, and a close-up detail of the entwined snakes on one of our doorknobs. They are indeed superior to other drawings I've seen of his. Regulus managed to inherit some long-buried artistic trait that completely passed me over. My skills in the realm of visual art basically consist of drawing neat but uninspired stick-figure cartoons and splattering oil paint over things.

The Black family's unceasing conversation topic of the moment appears to be Bella's betrothal, according to Regulus, whose word I don't doubt. "Mother and Father think she's made a good match. The Lestranges are an old and prestigeous family and they ought to join well with ours. I can't wait for the wedding this summer." My brother has got to be the only person who's not old enough to spell "prestigious" correctly and still gets excited about some boring arranged marriage.

As I mull over my brother's oddities, stuffing the letter into the front pocket of my bookbag, James snorts with a combination of laughter and indignation.

"What?"

"My parents just got a puppy, and you will not believe what my mum named her."

"What?"

"Honey! She's one of those blonde curly-haired cocker spaniels, so I guess it makes sense coloring-wise, but _still. _'Honey.' Ick. Too cutesy. Might as well name the poor dog 'Sweetheart' or 'Angel' or something."

"At least you get to have a dog! I've wanted a dog for ages. But it would 'tear up the furniture,' supposedly. Who cares about the bloody furniture? Do I get to meet your dog over break?"

"Sure." James grins. "I've wanted a dog for a while too. Even if it is some girly fluffy thing. With a dumb name."

"You could always get a Rottweiler too and name it Butch or something really macho like that, if you wanted to."

"Nah. I couldn't respect an overly manly dog any more than a super-girly one. A big scary dog like that needs a cute name, or else you'll be expecting it to bite your head off in your sleep."

On that happy note, he folds the letter matter-of-factly and deposits it in his satchel.

"Oh, and Sirius?"

"Yeah?"

"We'll need to add murder holes to our list of things to scout for. Murder holes and secret passageways. Prank the Slytherins something awful, eh?"

I glance over at the Slytherin table, searching up and down it for our Number One Least Favorite Slytherin. It takes a minute to find Snape, squished up against the wall between two groups of chattering students. One is a bunch of sixth-year girls, including my cousin Narcissa. The other is Mulciber, Rosier, Avery, and another second-year I don't recognize. I've seen Snape hanging out with them before, but they seem to be mainly ignoring him right now. He leans forward to say something from his place by the wall, sticking his head around Rosier, but nobody responds.

"I don't know why he's trying to suck up to them. Honestly, they obviously don't want _him."_

_"_Not much of a stretch to guess why, is it? I mean, 'Snape' isn't exactly a Wizarding surname, is it? He's half-blood at best."

James looks at me, a bit oddly, and I realize how much I sound like my mother. Embarrassed, I rush to explain myself.

"Popularity in Slytherin is basically limited to the people with the most impeccable background. Lucius Malfoy's a Quaffle-headed git, but he's a prefect and he's got a whole court of friends, because his direct ancestors came over with William the Conqueror. That's how it works over there. Snape's got no chance, even if he wasn't such a little prat."

James points a fork at me with all the accusatory grandeur of a judge delivering his verdict. "If you'd been Sorted over there, you'd be the first-year alpha male instead of Mulciber, I think."

That's an uncomfortable truth if ever there was one. I grimace. The truth is, other than the fact that the Sorting Hat threw me over to Gryffindor, I'd be a textbook-case privileged little pureblood Slytherin, as my parents were obviously hoping. My ancestors came over with the Normans too.

Lucius Malfoy's dig at me last night about being good at bargaining dug deeper than he probably expected. It's no small point of pride with me that I was Sorted somewhere other than my entire family, and to Gryffindor in particular. I'm _glad _I'm a lion, and it makes me slightly nervous thinking about how close I might have come to sitting on the other side of the hall.

James, noticing my frown, opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Peter, of all people, pipes up.

"Well, I think you're very Gryffindor. You're the bravest person I know."

I turn to look at him, and he flushes, glancing back down at his breakfast.

"Sorry."

"Thanks, Peter," I say, still a little surprised at his input.

"How could you say that?" James says, laying a hand to his heart. Peter jumps slightly. "Clearly, I am the bravest person ever to walk this earth. I'm Achilles distilled in the person of a ninety-pound twelve-year-old."

"I'll remember that the next time I think about shooting you in the heel." Remus says.

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Achilles. Might I remind you that you don't turn twelve till the end of March?"

"I always start moving my age up before my actual birthday so I can get used to it. Wouldn't want to tell people I'm still eleven when I'm really twelve. I'd prefer not to seem like a kid."

"You've got your priorities in order, that's for sure." I smirk.

James gives me a powerful mock-glare. "Shut up, Sirius. I imagine you'd prefer not to get hexed to a pulp by an _eleven-year-old._"

"And a ninety-pound one, too!"

"Don't forget, I have a hero's soul."

"Can't you just imagine them as medieval warrior barons, though?" Remus asks Peter in a stage whisper. They both giggle.

"Oi, I'll hex you too." James announces. "That's a promise."

They just laugh harder. James adopts an exaggerated put-out look. I struggle to keep a straight face appropriate for a medieval warrior baron, but find myself laughing along with the other two.

"Stop laughing, peasants. We've got a secret passageway to go down."

When we reach the one-eyed witch's statue, it looks just the same as it did last night. That ism when we first found it, not when I left it, obviously. The hump is closed, and Peter is no longer jutting out of it.

"You just have to tap it with your wand again to get it closed," James proclaims. "We'll need a way to stop anyone else from getting in."

"It ought to be pretty easy to set a password spell," Remus muses. "Since we're already tapping it with a wand."

"Right. We'll hit the library at some point. Sirius, mate, you want to go first? Since you couldn't last night."

"Of course." I draw my wand, and tap the hump. It unfurls, leaving the dark hole I remember from the night before.

"Follow me, troops." I wedge my left foot into the opening, drawing myself up by hooking my arms over the stony crone's head.

"I must say, I do prefer 'troops' to 'peasants'" Remus remarks as I slide both my legs into the cavity.

"Good for you. Peasant." James grins broadly and adjusts his glasses. "Want a push, Sirius?"

"Sure."

He presses his hands against my shoulderblades and shoves. I slither into the chute, sliding downwards at an increasing pace, before coming to rest at the entrance to a long, flat tunnel. I pick myself up, stooping to avoid banging my head.

"Made it down okay!" I yell. "Send Peter now."

Half a minute of muffled scrapes and grunts later, Peter begins his own journey down the chute, coming to rest at my feet. I stick my hand out and pull him to his feet.

I'm already wandering down the tunnel, wand tip alight, by the time James and then Remus make their way down, Peter trailing nervously behind me. The other two run in an awkward hunchbacked position, bent at the shoulders, to catch up.

"Would you mind waiting occasionally?" James complains.

"Sorry. You know how inviting a long dark tunnel can be."

"True."

The tunnel continues for an unreasonably long time. Eventually it starts to slope upwards, then turns into a flight of narrow steps.

"Blast these underground stairs," I grumble. "And again I say, what idiot designed this?"

"Keep your chin up, soldier," James says, cheerful tone not disguising a slight pant.

Peter moans from behind me.

"Come on, you can do it." Remus's voice reaches me as well.

"About time!" James exclaims in relief when our heads bump what I recognize as a trapdoor.

We both grip a latch, and push upwards. A small crack of dim, watery light appears, then widens as we open the trapdoor further.

We poke our heads out. James is blinking owlishly, and I can feel cobwebs in my hair. We appear to be in a dusty, rather cluttered storeroom. There's a wooden crate stamped with the Drooble's logo at about eye level.

I scan the room, noticing several more packages with candy-related printing.

"I don't believe this. I think we're in the—"

"—Honeydukes basement?" James cuts me off. "Yes. Yes, we are."

We begin to clamber out of the opening, leaving Remus's and Peter's heads, similarly cobwebbed, space to pop up.

"Well, this is wonderful." James rests his hand on a carton of Chocolate Frogs appreciatively. "We can get candy whenever we want now. I haven't been this excited since we got into the kitchens."

"Honestly, is sugar the only way to get through to you?" I say teasingly.

"You're just as bad, if not worse."

"How are we going to get up to the shop without someone catching us?" Remus points up a rickety little flight of stairs at the slightly ajar door I assume leads to Honeydukes proper.

"Sneakily. Very sneakily."

When I put my eye next to the gap in the door, I see the front counter of the candy shop. The man who runs Honeydukes has his back to us.

I gesture frantically to the other three, and we slip out, creeping past the occupied shopkeeper, excited smiles on our faces.

The discovery of the Honeydukes passage is a source of great excitement for us, even though we decide that the passageway itself is a bit of a tramp. A password spell is eventually tracked down, after a few tedious hours of trawling through dusty leather-bound spellbooks. The password on the witch's hump is set, fixing our confidence that we're the only ones able to access the tunnel.

As February passes, our last snowfalls melt into lashings of chilling, ugly late-winter rain. By the dawn of March, however, the first deep purple crocuses have sprouted under the trees by the lake. Hagrid plants the first seeds of his spring garden in fresh-broken ground near his hut. Though the grounds are still cold, a fresher, brighter wind blows in from the south. Treks to Herbology class no longer call for gloves, caps, and mufflers as well as cloaks.

March is also the birth month of two of our little group. Remus turns twelve barely a week into the month, while James's birthday is on the 27th, during break. He excitedly informs us over breakfast one day, after unwrapping a letter from home, that a playoff match between Wimbourne, his favorite Quidditch team, and Puddlemere United is scheduled for the 26th. Whichever team wins will advance to the All-England finals. His father is getting tickets for him and his friends as a birthday treat.

To our surprise, Remus's face immediately pales, and he looks miserable.

"I can't make that. Er…my aunt's visiting. We, um, don't see her very often. My parents will want me to stay home."

"Can't you write them and make a case for it?" James asks.

"I don't think so." Remus looks despondent.

"You don't need to look so sad, it's just a Quidditch match. I'd have liked you to come, but it's not the end of the world."

Remus shrugs slightly. "I guess I could write my parents."

"That's the spirit."

"You know, Remus's birthday's on the tenth." James whispers to me on the way to Potions after breakfast.

"We should get a present together, is that what you're aiming at?"

"Yes. Also, remember that booby-trap we set up for you last November?"

"A birthday prank, you mean?"

"Yes. Except not quite, 'cause I feel like Remus wouldn't appreciate waking up to a face full of éclair. Just a guess."

"But some sort of surprise to wake him up with?"

James nods. I frown thoughtfully.

"We could get the kitchen elves to make him a cake."

"Think they'll do it for us?"

"They're _house-elves, _James. They do whatever they're ordered to do."

"Well, I guess so. We'll need to plan a good cake design."

"Devil's Food. Lots and lots of chocolate."

"The birthday cake from hell, courtesy of Satan and Embry the house-elf." James grins.

The house-elves, as predicted, are more than happy to bake a cake for us. They'll be finished with it early in the morning on the tenth, and will send it up to our dormitory.

We all chip in some of our pocket money—mostly mine and James's—and make a side trip to Hogsmeade to buy Remus his present. We decide on a bundle of a half-dozen pretty but functional eagle-feather writing quills from Scrivenshaft's Stationary Shoppe. I admire a rack of massively fluffy brown-and-white ostrich quills, but they're much too flamboyant for Remus.

At six in the morning on Remus's birthday, all three of us are awake. James is tying a shiny gold ribbon around the base of the quill bundle, although it's too irregularly shaped for wrapping paper. There's a bang, and two house-elves appear in the middle of the room, bearing a good-size round cake, swathed in thick fudgy icing. Remus rolls over in his sleep at the noise.

We thank the elves in whispers, and Peter kneels to take the cake from them. The elves Disapparate, with another crack. I rifle around in my trunk, inspired with a last minute brainwave. I pull a blue Filibuster's firecracker out from the corner where it's wedged, and wave it triumphantly.

"Think this would make a good candle?"

James purses his lips. "As long as it doesn't explode the whole cake. I don't want chocolate all over the walls."

"I'll just stick the end of the holster in."

I place the banger into the middle of the cake, then grab the glass of water off Peter's nightstand, for use in lighting the firework.

We silently arrange ourselves around Remus's bed, grinning excitedly at each other. Peter clutches the cake platter, and James is holding the present. I reach out and nudge Remus once, than again and harder.

Remus blinks, then rubs his eyes.

"Wha—?"

"Happy birthday!" we chorus gleefully.

Remus sits up in bed, eyes widening at the sight of the cake. I take the opportunity to sprinkle water over the firecracker. It explodes in a halo of blue and white sparks over the top of the cake.

I smirk at James. "See, the whole thing didn't blow up. I judged it correctly. Told you so."

Remus looks shocked at our celebration, as well as the explosion, but he's smiling tremulously.

"T-thank you. All of you."

"We bought you a present, too!" James says proudly, passing him the quills.

"They're beautiful." Remus looks up at us, something radiant and wistful in his blue eyes. "You're very good friends."

I smile at him, a little awkwardly. I understand exactly what Remus is feeling. From what I know, Remus didn't have any close friends before Hogwarts either. I know what it's like to be taken by surprise by affection.

"Enough talk!" James exclaims jovially. "Let's cut the cake!"


	13. A Long-Awaited Journey

A/N: Sorry about the wait. I believe readers will spot a cameo from an unexpected character in this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: A Long-Awaited Journey

Soon enough, term wraps up. We wait until the morning our Easter holidays start to pack; the dormitory becomes a whirl of socks, jumpers, and Remus's rainboots. Incidentally, being hit in the head by a yellow rubber boot is not particularly fun.

I spend a good ten minutes luring Lacerta into her cage with a piece of ham. Once safely locked up, she makes offended clucking noises all the way down to the carriages, until I tell her she sounds like a chicken, at which point she stops and looks haughty. My owl is definitely a member of the Black family.

I'm practically bouncing with excitement at the prospect of spending my holidays with the Potters. The journey to King's Cross, however, is still enjoyable. During the ride, we learn that James can fit four Pumpkin Pasties in his mouth at once. If anyone could find a use for that talent, James could.

Apparently, gripping the luggage rack and using it to pull yourself up, flip over, and kick your feet against the wall is frowned upon.

Upside down, the angry face of an older Ravenclaw girl, seen through the glass compartment door, is quite funny. She pushes the door open, and I flip upright.

"Do you mind? We're trying to have a civilized conversation in the next compartment, thank you very much."

"Can't take a joke, can you?"

The girl rolls her eyes. "Please, just stop."

"Fine, then." I drop down onto the seat next to Peter. "I stopped. You can leave now."

"Oh, _honestly."_

The compartment door slams shut.

"You're really quite something, you know," James says affectionately. "You're already raising hell among the older girl faction. You'll infamous by second year."

"I imagine Cissy's already told the entire female population of Slytherin House how much I annoy her," I say with some satisfaction. "And besides, the 'older girl faction' is so easy to tick off."

"True, true," James shakes his head in an attempt at mature wisdom, succeeding mainly in looking like a rather bemused owl.

"Have a bean?" He thrusts the bright purple Bertie Bott's bag at me invitingly.

"Alright." I plunge my hand into the bag and withdraw a small handful of beans. I hold a bean up to eye level, examining its creamy off-white color.

"What do you think? Vanilla? Popcorn?"

"Try it and see."

I pop the bean into my mouth.

"I can't believe it, it's butter. Just butter. Nothing else."

"Ooh, try the red one. Looks like chili pepper," Remus interjects.

"Do you want me to blow my head off? The chili ones are awfully spicy."

"Give it over here, then, if you're chicken."

"Shut up, James. I can eat a spicy jellybean, you know."

There's an expectant pause while I do so.

"Argh, that's like fire."

"What's that blue one?" Peter plucks it deftly out of my hand, tossing it into his mouth.

The expression of complete and utter confusion that crosses his face causes all three of us to break out laughing.

"It tastes like _flowers. _I'm not kidding. Irises or something."

Adventures with the local Ravenclaw female population, floral-flavored beans, and singed eyebrows from a particularly violent Exploding Snap conflagration aside, the journey passes smoothly and quite swiftly. We're stripping off uniform robes and struggling into ordinary clothes in no time, it seems.

Since we boarded the Hogwarts Express just after breakfast instead of at eleven o'clock like on September 1st, we reach King's Cross by four. The window is halfway down, and as the train pulls into the station, we jostle for position, taking turns sticking our heads out. As I'm being picked up by James's parents, who I've just met the one time, I don't bother searching for them, instead merely scanning the milling crowd of parents and siblings clustered on the platform.

"There's my mum!" Peter exclaims excitedly, waving at the short, plump woman I remember from Christmas break. "And my dad! And look, that's Nicole!"

Peter's father is also rather short and mostly bald except for thick drifts of gray hair over his ears. Nicole's hair is the same dishwater blond as Peter's, though in a mass of ringlets. She jumps up and down, waving back to her brother.

When the train slows to a stop, we hurry out into the corridor, dragging trunks and owl cages. Fighting out way through the bottleneck of students, we head for the doors. I forge ahead, butting various people in the back with Lacerta's cage. She hoots indignantly, much as some of the recipients of the shoving do.

When we finally get off the train, the Pettigrews have made their way around to our carriage's entrance.

Mrs. Pettigrew greets all of us. Like at Christmas, she looks rather harried and flustered, but she hails Peter with obvious affection, kissing his cheek and tucking him under her arm for a hug. Mr. Pettigrew flashes his son a bright grin, taking his trunk and scraping it up onto a waiting luggage trolley. Nicole, still bouncing with excitement, grabs her brother's arm, chattering happily.

Peter turns to wave at us as he's swept off by his enthusiastic family, now tightly packed in a little huddle.

"Remus! Remus!"

I've never met the Lupins, so I'm interested to know what Remus's parents look like. His mother, the one calling, is small and slight, no more than my height. There's something birdlike about her, with her delicate bone structure, her quick movements, and the colorfully patterned scarf wrapped around her neck.

She doesn't look particularly sickly, although she is very slender. There are fine lines etched around the corners of her eyes as well, particularly noticeable when she holds her son out at arm's length, examining him anxiously before pulling him into a close embrace. They're both beaming now.

Remus's father stands slightly aside, looking slightly awkward as his wife and child hug. In contrast to Mrs. Lupin, he's very tall, probably about six foot four. His shoulders are slightly stooped, as if he's uncomfortable with his height. Like Remus, he has large, wide-set blue eyes, and his curly dark hair is cropped short.

When Remus's mother releases him, his father hesitates for a moment, then steps forward. Remus jumps up and hugs him, standing on his toes, the tip of his head brushing the lapels of his father's loose-fitting tweed jacket.

"How was term?" Mr. Lupin's voice is gruff but affectionate.

"Great, thank you. Dad—Mum—these are my friends. Peter already left, but this is James, and Sirius." He points to each of us in turn.

Mrs. Lupin, who's standing closer to me than James, turns to me, smiling.

"I'm Anna. It's lovely to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too," I say, dipping my head in some embarrassment. Friendly introductions, without regard to rank or class, are not something I learned from my parents as a child.

"John Lupin." Remus's father sticks his hand out. I shake it, then release the grip.

"Sirius Black."

His eyebrows go up at my name, and he looks at me in appraisal and some apprehension.

Remus shoots the two of us a nervous glance. Apparently he neglected to tell his father he'd befriended a member of a rather infamously pureblood family. Can't blame him, since I haven't been entirely honest with my parents about my friends either.

Lifting my chin, I look him directly in the eyes, trying to look as confident as possible.

"How do you do?"

Formal responses work well for establishing a reputation. That I did learn from my parents.

"I'm doing well…thank you."

I give him my most charming social-situation smile. He looks confused, then returns the expression rather awkwardly.

Remus looks at me imploringly, then turns and nudges James, who's busily chatting up Mrs. Lupin. James glances over at us, appraising the situation, than nods at our fretful friend.

Jumping in front of me, he thrusts his hand out in front of him, grinning alarmingly.

"Hello, Mr. Lupin! It's good to see you. I'm James Potter!"

Mr. Lupin flinches at the intensity of James's greeting, and I begin to feel a little sorry for the poor man, who's obviously a little overwhelmed.

By the time the Lupins are collecting Remus's things in preparation to beat a hasty retreat, the Potter have arrived.

Mrs. Potter sweeps both of us into an exuberant hug, on in each arm. She's wearing pretty dark green robes and smells of a light, flowery perfume.

Releasing me, she gives her son an extra squeeze.

"How are you, dear?"

"Happy to be on break, that's for sure," James says, laughing. "Hey, Dad!"

Mr. Potter hugs both his wife and son, his broad, toothy smile mirrored on James's face. Mrs. Potter looks at me through the tangle of her family's arms.

"It's lovely to see you too, Sirius. We've been looking forward to doubling our household serving of chaos this Easter!"

I grin happily. "I'm sure I'll oblige you."

"Speaking of chaos, I've got a surprise for you two." Mr. Potter's voice is cheerful.

"What is it, Dad?"

"By order of popular demand," Mr. Potter says in a pompous-newscaster voice, "we are taking the Knight Bus home."

James positively _yelps _with excitement.

"The Knight Bus?" I ask, bewildered.

"It's a wizard bus! It's supposed to drive really fast and crazy. I've wanted to go on it for ages, but Mum wouldn't let me."

Mrs. Potter shrugs. "I'll regret it, certainly. But I caved. Even though it'd be much faster to simply Floo."

"But not nearly as fun, Mum!"

The four of us drag our baggage out of the station, then set off up a side street. Mr. Potter hoists my trunk, while James and I carry his together. Mrs. Potter holds the owl cages, one in each hand. When we reach an empty street, we deposit everything on the ground.

"Can't have the Muggles seeing this, can we?" asks Mr. Potter, sticking his right hand out over the asphalt.

The effect is immediate. A triple-decker bus, painted glossily in brightest purple, zooms up next to the curb out of nowhere, practically taking his hand off.

As the doors slide open, a rather blindingly handsome young man of about eighteen steps out. Flipping long blond locks over one shoulder, he smiles charmingly, then begins his spiel, in the voice of one practiced at monologue.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus! I'm Gilderoy Lockhart, and I will be your conductor today."

Gilderoy Lockhart continues, telling us a list of "daytime prices." Mr. Potter refuses an offer to purchase hot cocoa, and begins to help Lockhart haul our baggage onto the bus. The young conductor checks his reflection in the rear-view mirror as he ascends, releasing his grip on the trunk handle in order to fix his hair.

The driver, a middle-aged man with thick glasses, is taking advantage of the bus's lack of movement to rapidly demolish what looks like a tuna sandwich.

Although I've never been on a Muggle bus—I make a mental note to do just that—I'm pretty sure this is not what they look like. There are rows of overstuffed armchairs, interspersed with wooden chairs and even a stool or two, lined up with their backs to the rather greasy windows. Chandeliers dangle ponderously from the arched ceiling, and the stairwell in the center of the bus is magnificently tall. A fat woman in a purple cloak is dozing in one of the chairs, and two men wearing skullcaps made out of what looks like dragon skin are conversing in a far corner.

James glances at his father. "Shall we head up the stairs?"

"You might not want to do that. It can get pretty wild up there."

"Sounds like my kind of place, then." James smirks. "Coming, Sirius?"

I tear myself away from peering into the driver's compartment at all the gadgets necessary for driving a Muggle-style vehicle and dart after him. As we reach the stairs, I see another group of people boarding the bus behind us.

The Knight Bus's stairs are covered in an ornate but threadbare carpet. Glancing closer at it, I could swear I see strange figures, lizards and birds and odd fishlike things, moving, cavorting around the edges of the embroidery, always just at the corner of my eye.

The second floor is much like the first one, and the third, though also speckled with the occasional multi-person sofa, is similar as well. Various patrons look up at us as we pass.

Once we reach the top, James and I poke our heads out over the banister. Mrs. Potter waves from below.

"They've gotten to the third floor!" She calls. "You can start!"

I hear the engine firing up, a low throbbing purr, growing in volume. James and I grin at each other excitedly. Then, the bus _leaps _forward.

We're airborne for a moment. James manages to grab hold of the banister, his knees buckling beneath him. I'm hurled sideways onto one of the couches, scattering cushions everywhere.

The bus is weaving and jerking, turning corners with haphazard abandon, and I realize that the top level is actually swaying from side to side as we progress. James has released his hold and is sliding on the floor.

The ride is simultaneously nauseating, terrifying, and strangely exhilarating. I think I might vomit. I think I might _die_.

When the bus screeches to a halt, I am once more launched into the air, bouncing along the couch and colliding painfully with one of its corners. I've barely collected myself, twisting out of an almost pretzel-like shape, when we're off again.

By the time the bus finally stops and stays stopped, and James's parents are calling us from below, I know how a popcorn kernel feels. James and I pick ourselves off the floor, wincing, and hobble down the stairs.

"Enjoy yourselves?" Mr. Potter asks, with a truly evil grin.

"Quite," James gasps. "Shall we try again, say, when hell freezes over?"

Mr. Potter shakes his head, laughing.

"Knowing you, you'll be ready for another trip on the way back to school."

I look at him with some alarm.

"Not I. Never again, believe me!" James vows.

We tumble out of the door, the conductor dragging our bags with an air of affected laziness.

The Knight Bus is idling outside of a rather magnificent wrought-iron gate, with stone columns supporting either side, their surface covered in a thick tangle of ivy. The rock walls extend on a slightly lower level, creating a fence that rings the Potters' property. Through the gate's bars, a pebble-strewn driveway is visible, winding its way through a landscape that appears halfway between meadow and moor.

Mrs. Potter waves her wand, and the gates swing open with a grating, scraping sound. We stride up the driveway, baggage levitating behind us in midair. As we progress further, the house comes into full view.


End file.
